


Monachopsis

by L_E_Martin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 36,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27732622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_E_Martin/pseuds/L_E_Martin
Summary: 1st installment of my Supernatural Fanfic Series. Takes place during Season One of SPN.Twenty-year-old Gray has lived her whole life knowing she was different. Not every family hunts ghosts and werewolves on the weekends. But she wasn't complaining; she and her mother was the best pair of hunters there was. Her life wasn't normal, but it was simple. That is, until her absentee father shows up on her doorstep and whisks her away to rescue her mysterious half-brothers, Sam and Dean, and Gray begins to wonder just how much Winchester blood one can have before they inherit the family curse: bad luck.





	1. Strange Behavior

Growing up, my mother always told me I was special. But growing up in a small town like Fallon, it was hard to believe. Everyone's parents told them they were special, even though everyone's parents were exactly the same. But Mom was different.

Looking back on all of it now, I long for simpler times. Back when I fought my mother because homework was hard and the dishes were too many to do alone. When my biggest worry was if I was going to pass my calculus test. However, now that I think about it, there never were simpler times. As a child, Mom taught me marksmanship instead of hopscotch; we played Find The Coordinate Point instead of Barbie dolls.

Because Mom was a hunter, and I was supposed to be one too.

My father was never around much. He dropped by once every six months, just to make sure we were still alive. I used to idolize him, but once I turned twelve, it got old really fast. I had once asked my mother why he never stayed longer than a weekend. I was young, but I guess Mom didn't want me dealing with anything less than the truth. So she told me.

"Your father has other children that he takes care of. You have two brothers, Gray, but they stay with him. Not with us."

It wouldn't be the last time I inquired about my mysterious brothers. Dad never wanted to talk about them, and Mom didn't know much to begin with. But from what I could gather, their names were Dean and Sam Winchester. And that was all I would know for a while.

Mom had been in a frenzy all week. Running through the house, muttering to herself. But when I'd gotten home today, it seemed worse than before. Her normally tidy blond hair was spilling from it's topknot, her dark blue eyes wide and crazed. Outside, thunder crashed, and lightning flashed, illuminating the duffel bags piled in the living room.

"Mom?" I called to her. She was sitting in her chair by the window, staring out with an unreadable expression. She flinched when I spoke, like she was just realizing that I was there.

"Gray," she said, voice oddly calm compared to her appearance. I caught the note of expectation in her tone.

"It was a werewolf," I explained, "in Dallas. Poor bastard didn't even know he'd murdered his own wife. One shot put him down easily enough."

"Did you take your vitamins?" Mom asked, blowing aside my report.

I hadn't, and already my head was feeling fuzzy, like someone had stuffed it full of cotton balls. "No," I said.

Mom scowled disapprovingly. I got the hint. The white plastic bottle was sitting solitary on the granite countertop in the kitchen, stark against the black stone. In the upturned cap was a single vitamin: a jet-black capsule meant to be swallowed.

I went through the motions of taking it, not even bothering to get water when I forced it down.When I returned to the living room, Mom was exactly where I left her. She fingered the crystal pendant that hung from her neck as she watched cars pass down out street. I'd asked her about it before, but she always brushed aside my questions. Now, her paranoid behavior set my teeth on edge. I couldn't sit still, pacing back and forth in the living room while she sat there.

"Who are you waiting for?" I demanded, growing irritated. I had been gone a week. I'd lived only on granola bars, day-old joe, and I longed for a shower with good water pressure. "Can't I at least change my clothes? I'm filthy?"

"There's a few pairs in that bag," Mom replied, not even looking at me. "Change."

I huffed, and made for the maroon duffel bag she'd pointed out. But when I yanked it open, I found not only one pair of clothes, but a dozen. All of them mine.

"Mom," I said, straightening. "What's going on? Really?"

She didn't look away from the window. "Go change, Gray. I'll explain after."

I refused to make the long trek upstairs, so I switched clothes in the downstairs bathroom. I crumpled my week-old hunting garb into a ball and dumped it in the laundry basket before walking out and joining my mother in the living room. She was still curled up in her plush armchair, attention fixated on the front window, her body coiled like a snake ready to strike.

I stole an energy drink from the fridge before I joined her, folding up in the chair across from her. Mom raised her eyebrows at me as she watched me crack open my can and slurp loudly.

"That brew is poison," she stated. "You should go rest."

"This 'poison' has saved my life more times than I'd like to count," I countered. I set down my can and stared at her head-on. "You said you'd explain. So explain."

She heaved an exasperated sigh. I tensed, prepared to put up a fight if she told me to mind my own business. But she said, "Your father is on his way."

It was my turn to raise the eyebrows. "John?"

"Yes," she said. "I've asked him to come and pick you up."

"'Pick me up'?" I demanded, quickly growing angry. "I'm not twelve anymore, Mom. You can't just toss me to John whenever you want. I'm an adult!"

"Gray," she barked. "I have my reasons. All I ask is that you trust me."

"I do trust you," I sighed, leaping to my feet. "I just can't believe you'd just hand me to my father without telling me? What's going on?"

"Something big is in the making, child," said Mom, still curled calmly in her chair. "I cannot give you all the details because I do not know everything. But John does. He'll explain when he gets here."

"And then what? He's taking me on a little field trip? Gonna take his little girl to Disneyland?"

"Mind your tongue!" she snapped. Anger burned in her eyes. "Your father and I have sacrificed much to keep you safe, Gray. Now, I am asking you to go with him. Don't make this any harder than it is."

"So that's it?" My anger was burning too bright to stop now. "No explanation? Nothing?"

"Yes," she hissed, rising slowly to her feet. "And until your father gets here, it will remain so. I suggest you check your temper, young lady, and be patient. He'll be here soon enough."

She sat back down, lounging in her chair like a relaxed wildcat; lithe and fluid, strong muscles active beneath skin. The blond hair draped over her shoulders reminded me of a lion's mane. Outside, thunder crashed.

As if on cue, there was a heavy knock at the door. I jumped, instinctively reaching for the pistol I keep concealed in the chair arm pocket. Mom didn't stop me as I made for the door. When I peeked out the front window, a tall, thick silhouette was standing on the front porch. I felt my heart begin to pick up speed, and I turned to my mother.

"Stay here," I told her. She merely glanced up at me before looking away again.

I flicked on the porch light and pressed the muzzle of the pistol to the back of the front door before I unlocked it. However, when I swung it open, I was startled to find a familiar face looking back at me. His face was rough hewn, with dark scruff and black hair. His dark eyes were soft, but the shadows behind them warned of a past best left alone.

"Grace," said John Winchester, "it's good to see you again."


	2. Daddy Dearest

I stared at John Winchester in abrupt shock as I struggled to get my bearings. Hearing my full name sent a wave of nostalgia over me that I struggled to wrestle into submission. When I finally did, anger quickly took place of my surprise.

"Good to see you?" I repeated. "Are you serious? After eight years, that's all you have to say?"

Johns face twisted from expectation to acceptance. "Can I come in?" he asked.

Most of me wanted to slam the door in his face so hard it broke his nose. But I could feel Mom's growing impatience radiating from the living room. Begrudgingly, I stepped aside and allowed John to pass into the foyer. He went straight into the living room, and I could hear his and Mom's lowered voices as I swallowed my frustration.

When I finally joined them, Mom had risen from her seat by the window and was busy fussing with the duffel bags. John was posted by the kitchen doorway, expression unreadable.

"So," I said. My voice sounded loud in the tense silence. "Now will you tell me what's going on?"

My question was directed at Mom, but John answered before she could. "I'm taking you with me. There's a job in Chicago, and I need you there."

"Why?" I demanded. "Don't you have other kids you could go bother?"

"Gray," Mom scolded. But John shook his head calmly.

"Your brothers are already there," he said. "And they're in danger. If not for me, at least come for them."

"I don't see why I should. No offense to either of them, but I don't know them. I've never seen a picture; I don't even know what they look like! What do they need me for? Do they even know I exist? From the way you evade every question I've ever had about them, I'm guessing they don't."

"Grace--" John started.

"We aren't asking," Mom finished, lifting a duffel bag and handing it to me. "This isn't up for discussion, Gray. You're going."

"I'm a grown woman, Mom," I snapped. "I think I'm capable of making my own choices."

"Any other time, sure," she said. "But not this time. You don't understand what's at stake here."

"Then tell me." I was growing desperate now. The thought of leaving with John made me nauseous. "If you just explain--"

"I can't," she said regretfully. "I wish I could. But the less you know, the better. Now," she pressed the bag into my arms and tried to turn me toward the front door." You must go."

"Colette," said John urgently. He took his head out from behind the curtains. "We have to hurry."

"No," I said stubbornly. "I'm not leaving. Not with him; not until one of you tells me what the hell is going on!"

"Your brothers aren't the only ones in danger, Grace," John said lowly. He fixed me with unreadable black eyes. "You are too."

"John," Mom protested.

"She deserves to know," he countered. He turned back to me, footsteps heavy on the wooden floor as he approached slowly. "There's a demon that I've been hunting for the past twenty-two years: the demon that killed my wife. I'm closing in, and he knows it. He's getting desperate. He's already attacked your brothers. Now he might come after you."

"What do I have anything to do with this?" I asked. "Mary wasn't my mother."

"It doesn't matter," John shook his head. "Not to this demon. You're my daughter, and that's all he cares about. As long as you're separated from us, you're vulnerable. But with your brothers, you'll be safe, at least until I kill the bastard."

"What about Mom?" The subject of Johns wife made me uncomfortable. Mom always said it didn't bother her, but it felt awkward to speak about Mary around her. "Isn't she in danger too?"

'I can take care of myself," Mom assured me. A rare smile curled her lips. "It'll take more than a petty demon to take me down."

"But--"

"Grace!" John said sharply. Outside, bright headlights flashed across the sheer curtains. John's eyes were wide with urgency. "We're out of time. We need to go. Now."

"No, Mom--" I cried. But before I could say any more, my bag was thrust into my chest, a kiss was pressed on my forehead, and John was dragging me out the backdoor. His black truck was waiting for us, silent and dark like an avenging angel.

"We can't leave her!" I protested, trying to turn around. In the front of the house, I could hear car doors opening and slamming shut.

"She'll buy us some time," said John, tossing my bag into the backseat. "But she can only hold them off for so long. We need to leave."

He yanked open the passenger side door, and I scrambled in on instinct. I looked down at him with pleading eyes.

"Please," I begged. "We can't leave. She's my mom . . ."

John met my eyes with surprising tenderness. I could almost imagine pain in his bottomless irises. "I know," he said. And slammed the door.

As he hopped into the drivers seat and started the truck, I caught a glimpse of my mother through the living room window. Intimidating silhouettes crowded around her, but she didn't look afraid. If anything, she looked the exact opposite. I could almost see the excited gleam in her eyes she always got while on a hunt.

As John pressed the gas, lightning illuminated the inside of the house, turning the shadows behind my mother into contorted, twisted figures. The weapon in her hand gleamed white with reflected light. And then we were gone.


	3. Chicago, Oh Chicago

Chapter III: Chicago, Oh Chicago

We drove for days. Every morning, noon, and night, I called my mother's phone. All four of them. Every time, there was no answer.

I begged John to take me back. I pleaded, screamed, fought. But he wouldn't budge. I had planned to make a run for it two days into our long circle west to Chicago, but he must have suspected, because I woke up the next day in the passenger seat. We had been staying at a ruddy hotel when I'd gone to sleep.

The farther away we drove from Texas, the more I gave up hope that my mother had survived. I couldn't even be sure about what had attacked us that night. Part of me refused to accept that she might not have made it.

She'd fought so many creatures before, said my heart. Why would this be any different?

Because it is, argued my brain. What have we gotten ourselves into?

I barely spoke to John during our journey to Chicago. I stubbornly refused to act civil, only talking when necessary. Every time he attempted to ask about me, I shut him down immediately. I wasn't in the mood for a daddy-daughter heart-to-heart.

When we got into the city, the sun had already set. The streets were cast in orange lamplight, the skyscrapers gleaming with pockets of white fluorescent glow like heavenly sentries overlooking the world. I had been dozing off against the window when we hit the suburbs, but now I was wide awake. I gazed out at the tall buildings in interest.

"Where are we meeting them?" I asked. It was the first time I'd talked in over two days.

"I got a call back at the gas station outside Aurora," John replied. "They're being held in an abandoned theatre a couple miles from here."

"'Being held'?" I repeated, shocked. "As in, held captive?"

"Not for long," he said calmly. But he had gotten a predatory look in his eyes. It would have been terrifying if not for the fact that I wasn't afraid of him.

"And after we rescue them?" I pressed. "What happens then?"

John didn't answer. Since we'd left Fallon, I'd somewhat gotten used to his selective hearing. However, it made it no less irritating. But I didn't have the energy to pick a fight, so I let it lie, changing the subject.

"You do realize that whoever made the call is laying a trap, right?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. He took his eyes away from the road to look at me. "But whoever this demon is, she has your brothers."

I didn't have a response to that. Part of me knew that I should have been concerned for Sam and Dean. Were they okay? Were they injured, or being tortured? Were they even still alive? But a large portion of me just couldn't care. I tried to rationalize it with the fact that I didn't know them, and why should I care about two strangers when my mother had been left behind to fend for herself? But I couldn't tell John that, so   
I kept silent.

I don't know how much time had past before we pulled up down the block from the old theatre the demon had directed John to. Looking up at it from the truck, it definitely seemed like the kind of abandoned shindig a demon would squat in. The windows were boarded up, and those that were not were broken and cracked. The faded brick façade was covered in layers of graffiti, the painted on theatre name too worn to read.

"What's the plan?" I asked as I dug through my bag for a weapon. John stopped me with a hand on mine. I withdraw it reflexively, but look up at him.

"I'm going alone, Grace," he said. Immediately, I shook my head.

"Like hell." I went back to searching through my duffel. My hands closed on the handle of my dagger.

"I'll go in, get your brothers, and meet you back here," he went on, as if I hadn't spoken.

"No, Dad!" I snapped. I tucked my knife into the holster on my thigh and shoved my hands on my hips. "You did not take me from my mother and drag me a thousand miles from home just to tell me to wait in the truck. I'm going in with you."

"God, you're so stubborn, just like your mother!" he barked.

"I'll take it as a compliment," I shot back.

John narrowed his eyes at me. For a moment I was scared he would tie me to the steering wheel, but before he could, a loud crash erupted from the street side of the theatre. Our heads whipped in the direction of the sound. Instinct had me running towards it before John could stop me.

"Wait, Grace--" he shouted after me. But I didn't wait.

I kept running, rounding the corner of the building and facing the busy cross street. But I skidded to a stop when I saw the body of a young woman sprawled on the sidewalk. Her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful. I could be made to believe she was sleeping, if not for the fact that she was laying on a Chicago sidewalk, and her limbs were bent in every unnatural direction you could think of. Her blood was nearly black against the moonlit concrete.

I had made up my mind to help her when John caught up to me. He took one look at the girl, and clamped his hand on my shoulder hard enough to bruise.

"Dad, what are you--" I began.

"Let's go, Grace," he said, voice cold and hard.

"But what about--"

"Change of plans," he said. "We have somewhere else to be."


	4. Brothers Of Mine

I paced the length of the hotel room anxiously. The fact that anyone could come through the door at any moment put me on edge. John was peering calmly through the window, not paying any attention to my nervous twitching.

"Wouldn't it be easier just to call them?" I asked, turning to him with my arms crossed over my chest. It was a moment before he answered.

"Better they find out I'm here without anyone overhearing," he said. He turned his head to the side just enough for me to see his small smirk. "Didn't peg you as a person of high standing morals."

"Thanks," I sneered, "but it's not my morals I'm worried about. The Winchester boys have a reputation. The last thing I need is for them to, quote, "shoot first and ask questions later"."

John stayed silent and turned back to the window. I stood there for a couple seconds, imagining how many ways a bullet could enter his brain before I shook my head and retreated to the far corner of the room. I drew my dagger and inspected the gleaming silver blade in the moonlight. Then I got bored and went for my pistol, unloading and reloading the magazine, clicking the safety on and off.

After ten minutes of me doing that, John got annoyed and said, "You're gonna shoot your foot off."

I paused and glanced up. "At least then something interesting would happen." But I slid the gun back in it's holster and leaned against the wall. "How long are we gonna have to stand here in the dark? Did they stop for takeout?"

Not a minute after the words left my mouth, there was noises in the hallway outside. Two sets of heavy footsteps coming closer and closer to the door. Despite the odds that it was John's boys, the odds that it wasn't drew my hand to my holster. I flipped the strap, but before I could draw, John held up a staying hand. I clenched my teeth, annoyed at being told to heel, but re-fixed the strap. I flexed my fingers as a pair of voices joined the footsteps.

"Why don't you leave that stuff in the car?" asked a gruff voice.

There was the sound of jangling keys, then another voice, this one softer and not as deep. "I said it before and I'll say it again--better safe than sorry."

A key was inserted into the hotel door and it opened a second later. From my position in the corner, I watched as two young men--one much shorter than the other--sauntered in. Immediately spotting John by the window, the shorter one went on the offense.

"Hey!" he grunted sharply. The light switched on, but I stayed tight in my corner, watching the two men warily. The taller man froze behind his partner, watching warily as John turned calmly to face them.

John's face had--for the first time--a genuine smile curling his lips.

The two men stilled in shock, the silence heavy with disbelief before the taller man choked out a single word, "Dad."

The word hit me with a jolt. Dad. These were my brothers; the famed Sam and Dean Winchester. Seeing them in the flesh after twenty years of hearing nothing but hear-say was nothing more but surreal. As the three men reunited, I was careful to keep my distance. The intimacy of their actions--the heavy air around their embraces--made me feel out of place. Now more than ever, I longed for my mother.

"Boys," said John, breaking me from my thoughts. "There is someone I'd like you to meet."

His dark eyes zeroed in on me. The boys followed his gaze, and their individual sets of eyes settled on my frame, half-hidden in the shadows. Swallowing my gut instinct to bolt for the door, I stepped out into a shaft of moonlight. When I took a step closer, I was made aware for the first time the grisly wounds on their faces. The taller boy's face was marred with bleeding claw-like marks. The other boy was bleeding from a wound at the corner of his eye.

"Dean," John's hand settled heavily on the shoulder of the shorter of the two boys, "Sam," a hand on the shoulder of the taller one, "this is Grace."

"Gray," I corrected quickly. I met John's eyes pointedly. "I go by Gray."

The two of them looked at me in apprehension. Dean--who I knew was the eldest--scanned me from head to foot, green eyes brimmed with wary interest. Sam--the younger--gazed at me with open curiosity, and even offered me a small, professional grin. But despite the lack of open hostility, my body was tensed, bracing for the backlash when the other shoe dropped. And John dropped it.

"She's your sister," he said. There it was. The boys rounded on him, eyeing him with mixtures of disbelief, anger, and betrayal.

Dean was the first to speak. "Our what?"

John sighed and drew away from them, standing between the two of them and me, as if it could save me from the untrusting glares they were stabbing my way. John put both hands up in surrender before Dean could say anything else.

"Right now isn't the time for this discussion, I'll admit," he said, "but with the way this is going, there may not be a right time. Now, Grace--Gray is a hunter. She's skilled; she's lethal. And I need you two to look after her."

"I'm not a toddler, Dad," I snapped. Sam and Dean stared at me with wide eyes, as if neither of them would dare address their father like that. I ignored them and continued, looking only at John. "I don't need babysitters. I can take care of myself."

"I'm not having this argument again," John stated, the finality in his tone cutting off any rebuttal I could think of. "Now, this demon--"

"Dad, it was a trap," Dean said suddenly, his handsome face long with shame. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"That's all right," said John understandingly. "I thought it might have been."

"Were you there?" Dean asked.

"Got there just in time to watch Goldie Locks make a pancake out of herself," I said. Dean's head snapped to look at me. I tried to act nonchalant despite the twisting in my gut. I shrugged and looked away, focusing my attention out the window.

"She was the bad guy, right?" John asked, grinning in amusement.

"Yes sir," droned the boys in unison. The automatic tone of their response startled me. But from what I'd seen about John, it was clear that he was man used to giving orders and expected them to be followed.

"Good," John nodded. "Well, it doesn't surprise me. It's tried to stop me before."

This time, it was Sam who spoke. "The demon has?" he asked, confused.

"It knows I'm close," explained John. "It knows I'm gonna kill it. Not just exorcise it, or send it back to hell, actually kill it."


	5. Scared of Your Own Shadow?

"How?" asked Dean. His eyes were wide in awe of his father. I couldn't help but remember the same look in my eyes when I was twelve years old. It was the last time I ever looked at him like that.

"I'm working on that," said John. "That's why Gray's here. I need the three of you to watch out for each other until this whole shitshow is over with."

"Let us come with you," said Sam. "We'll help."

John bowed his head. His voice was almost inaudible, "No, Sam. Not yet." Louder, he said, "Try to understand. This demon is a scary son of a bitch. I don't want you caught in the crossfire. Any of you," he turned and looked at me. He held out a hand, and I understood; a peace offering. I took it. "I don't want you hurt."

"You don't have to worry about us," Sam assured him.

"Of course I do," John scoffed. He hadn't let go of me, instead moving his hand to my shoulder. The motion did not go unnoticed by Dean. "I'm your father."

John cleared his throat before starting again. "Listen, Sammy, the last time we were together, we had one hell of a fight."

"Yes, sir," Sam agreed.

John didn't say anything for a minute. He smiled ruefully to himself and nodded, as if he was coming to terms with something he had been holding onto. When he looked back up at Sam, his eyes seemed almost misty. "It's good to see you again," he said. "It's been a long time.

Sam said quietly, "Too long."

When John released me from his grip to embrace his son, I stepped back again. The heavy emotions of this reunion was stabbing me in the heart. I was again reminded of how much I didn't fit into this family. They were a unit; a team. All my life it was just Mom and me. What was I going to do now that it was just me?

My uncomfortable shuffling caught Dean's eye. When his gaze shifted from his family to me, I couldn't read the emotions in them. His guard was up, and I had a feeling it would take a lot before he let those walls down enough for me to know him. Looking at him now, I feared he would never really be my brother.

It was another moment before John broke away from Sam. With the additional glow of the streetlights outside, I caught a glimpse of a damp trail down the side of his face. But before I could really get a good look at it, he turned to Dean.

However, my heart leapt in my chest when John suddenly went flying backwards. I cried out, but before I could hurry over to him, Sam yelled as he--too--was tossed across the room by nothing. Then Dean. It was only when I glanced at the wall that I noticed the disembodied silhouettes flitting from wall to wall.

But in the next moment, a force like a truck knocked me off my feet. I had less than a minute of suspension before I hit the wall and everything went black.

The details of what happened after I was knocked out are fuzzy. I know I was only out for a few seconds. When I opened my eyes, the room around me was tilting and blurry. But despite the ringing in my ears, John's screams of pain echoed clear in my skull.

"Dad!" I cried out. Adrenaline was beginning to pump, instinct pushing me to my knees.

No more than five feet away, John was pinned against the cabinets, screaming as shadow-claws sliced his chest to ribbons. On the other side of the room, Sam and Dean were being tossed around like rag dolls. As soon as they would muster the strength to climb to their knees, the shadow monsters would fling them back down to the ground.

John let out another raw roar. The sound jarred me into action, struggling to climb to my feet. My head was pounding from the dent it left in the drywall, and as soon as I was upright, I was flying across the room. My puppet-body slammed into something that wasn't a wall. Dean groaned as the two of us hit the ground. Instinctively, he grabbed me by the biceps, keeping me from being thrown out the window and into the street two floors below.

"What is this thing?" I demanded.

Dean didn't answer, breathing heavily. He again tried to make a run for John, but was stopped. Across the room, Sam was rifling through a bag on the ground. He shouted, "Shut your eyes! These things are shadow demons, so let's light 'em up!"

They're what? I thought to myself. But I didn't have time to make sense of what he'd said before Dean seized my arm in a vise-grip and yanked me to the ground. Pain shot through my hip as I hit the floor. Dean flung out his arm and shoved my head against his chest. Through my eyelids, an impossibly bright white light flared.

John's screams stopped. Dean gripped my arms and instructed me to keep my eyes closed. He hauled me to my feet, but before he could escort me anywhere, I shrugged him off. I opened my eyes as much as I could and gave him the best glare I could muster.

"I'm fine," I tried to say. But words were replaced with a sudden, hacking cough. Thin smoke permeated the air of the hotel room.

Dean clung to the couch cushions and called out, "Dad!"

I couldn't hear John's reply with the ringing in my ears, but Dean stumbled in the direction of the door. I felt my way along the walls, searching--and locating--my duffel bag sitting by the restroom. I stumbled my way across the room blind, walking into another body against the wall. I caught sight of Sam's shaggy brown hair through barely-open eyes.

Sam gripped the shoulder of my jacket, and the two of us followed the hunched over figures of John and Dean as they led the way to the door.


	6. Hit The Road Jack

I took up the rear as Dean directed us to a side door. The busy main street still bustled in front of the hotel, cars and trucks honking and speeding by as if they couldn't possibly see the bright white flare coming through the second story windows.

Dean--still supporting John's weight--led us to the alley where John and I had parked the truck. Now, directly behind it, was a shiny black '67 Chevy Impala. Under normal circumstances, I would have drooled over the sleek body and cooed under the popped hood. But now, while running for my life, I could barely register the beast at all.

"All right, come on," Sam panted, pulling in front of Dean and John to yank open the Impala's back door. "We don't have much time. As soon as the flare's out, they'll be back."

"Wait, wait!" Dean's tone froze Sam in his tracks. I paused to catch my breath, wiping at the blood dripping in my eyes.  
"Sam, wait." Dean faced John, who was still leaning on him heavily. "Dad, you can't come with us."

"What?" Sam said immediately. "What are you talking about?"

As my adrenaline slowly began to fade, it was replaced with dreadful, quiet acceptance. My heart pounded with defiance against my ribs, but my face was a stone mask. A quick glance inside the Impala revealed my duffel bags illuminated by a shaft of street lamp glow.

"You boys," John said. His dark eyes scanned over the three of us. "You kids--you're beat to hell."

Thanks Pops, I sneered in my head. But my face remained impassive.

"We'll be alright," Dean assured him, breathless.

"Dean, we should stick together!" Sam protested. "We'll go after those--"

"Sam," Dean snapped, "listen to me!" There was a pause before he continued. "We almost got Dad killed in there. Don't you understand? They're not gonna stop. They're gonna try again. They're gonna use us to get to him. I mean, Meg was right. Dad's vulnerable when he's with us. He's . . . he's stronger without us around."

Sam looked on the verge of arguing. I beat him to it.

"Sam," I said. My voice sounded monotonous, even to me. My brother's wide eyes met mine. I shook my head. "Dean's right. I mean, the whole reason Dad brought me along was so that he could take off after this thing without having to worry about us. The four of us being together . . .kinda defeats the purpose. I didn't leave home to fail, Sam."

Sam stared at me harshly for a moment longer before turning to John. I glanced down, meeting Dean's eyes. He gave me a minute nod of approval--or respect, I couldn't tell.

"Dad . . ." Sam's voice was pleading now; desperate. "No. After everything, after all the time we spent looking for you, please. I've got to be a part of this fight."

"Sammy, this fight is just starting," John said. "And we are all gonna have a part to play. For now, you've got to trust me, son. Okay? You've got to let me go."

The finality in John's words hit my heart like a gong mallet. The meaning of them rung true, the pang echoing through my limbs like sonar. I shifted my weight to try and ease the ache, brushing against Dean's shoulder. I hadn't realized just how close the four of us were standing. We were huddled together like a group of penguins, instinctively shielding the others from the blizzard coming our way.

Sam clapped John harshly on the shoulder before dropping his arm, frustrated but defeated. John looked at the three of us for a long time, studying our features as if he didn't expect to see us again. When he took a step forward to leave, my feet stayed glued to the pavement. I was blocking his path, and I knew it. I'd accepted his departure, and ordered my body to move out of the way. But my limbs refused. I was a statue, a stone figure bolted in place. John's dark eyes met mine.

"Gray," he said softly. His calloused hands came up to frame my face. He smiled genuinely at me for the first time in a long while. "Be careful out there. Take care of each other."

Against everything in me, a lump formed in my throat. The corners of my eyes burned. I struggled to swallow, and a traitorous tear dripped down my cheek. John wiped it away discreetly, saving me the embarrassment of doing it myself when he pulled away.

I nodded and cleared my throat, trying to ignore the faint raspiness in my voice. "You too, Dad."

He let go of my face and shrugged around me, not looking back until he got to his truck. My brothers and I stayed frozen in our broken huddle, the empty space our father had left behind echoing with our shared bitterness. When John yanked open his door, he glanced back at us one last time.  
None of us said anything, but nothing had to be said. We knew what he meant with his faint smile, his dark eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. I tried to swallow the bitter taste on the back of my tongue, the leftover resentment that came with his relentless abandonment. My father had dragged me from my home against my will, and then he dumped me with two men I hardly knew.

I understood why, of course. But it wasn't about that. It was the principle. You'd think after all these years of the same pattern, I'd be used to it. But no matter how many times I tell myself that I shouldn't feel upset, it never stops disappointing me how quickly my father is willing to leave me.

If I could even call him that.

John stared at his kids for a moment, then he climbed into his truck. The engine roared to life. I was alone with my brothers, and now that my adrenaline was gone, the sting of wounds and the aches of bruises permeated my limbs. My entire body hurt down to my skeleton, but I tried to push it aside. Any other time, I'm sure being alone with my brothers would have been awkward and strained. But we were all too exhausted to do anything but climb into the car.

Naturally, I shuffled to the backseat. I didn't mind.

The three of us sat in silence and watched as our father drove away. There was a brief time when he was visible, but then he turned out of the alley, and he was gone. Quiet reigned over the car. Sam and Dean exchanged looks in the front seat before they looked back at me.

I met each of their eyes in turn, and a silent agreement passed between us. A temporary peace treaty, at least until we got to somewhere safe.

Dean switched on the car, and the engine came to life with a purr. The rumble of it infected the leather seats, and the rhythm of it lulled me into a restless sleep as we drove off into the night.


	7. Welcome To The Hotel California

I was in and out of consciousness while Dean drove. The exhaustion--both emotional and physical--had finally caught up to me. Sleep deprivation wasn't a stranger, but the emotional toll of the past few days had done damage.

However, by the time we pulled into a motel, my fatigue had left me. I didn't know where we were, but I couldn't really bring myself to care. Dean paid using cash, and it wasn't until he came back with a single key that he realized he'd only gotten one room. Out of instinct, he said. I didn't mind much. 

Mostly, I felt too numb to care.

The hotel room smelled like cheap cleaner and mothballs. Not that I was complaining. The suite was equipped with a futon, which I quickly claimed before the boys could put up some half-baked show of chivalry. I let the two of them take their respective time in the bathroom before I darted in to take a shower. The water pipes groaned like a wounded earthquake, but the pressure was decent and the temperature went up to scalding, so I dealt.

When I exited the bathroom, a cloud of steam followed behind me. The cool air of the room sent shivers up my bare arms and legs, but it was my brothers who drew my attention.

Both of them were in different states of distress. Dean was pacing back and forth anxiously, loading and reloading the clip of his gun. Sam was sitting on one of the twin beds, staring into space, lost deep in thought. Both of them looked up at me when I entered. I clutched the bundle of dirty clothes in my hands, trying to squeeze out the pit sitting in my gut.

"So," I said softly, leaning against the bathroom doorway. "Are we gonna talk about what happened, or . . . what?"

My nonchalance must have surprised them. Sam sat up, furrowing his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," I replied with a shrug. "Come on, let's hear it."

Dean sighed, growing exasperated. He gave me a blank stare. "Hear what, kid?"

I let that one slide. "Oh, come on! The 'who are you really'. The 'Dad would never'; the 'we don't have a sister'. Let's hear the denial!"

I waited expectantly, arms open to embrace the hailstorm of harsh accusations and a fierce battle of beliefs. But all I got was crickets. My brothers stared me like chumps, faces blank and confused. Dean was the first one to speak.

"There's nothing to talk about," he grunted.

My temper flared up like a cobra rearing its head. It was irrational and sudden, but I couldn't help but feel frustrated. I felt the urge to storm out, but I didn't have a key, and asking to be let back in after a tantrum would just be humiliating. So instead, I sighed out the steam in my brain and nodded.

"Okay. Whatever." I walked over to the futon and began making my bed. As I shoved my balled up clothes into my bag, I said, "If we leave early, we'd make it to Fallon before dark."

Silence.

"Fallon?" Sam asked. "Where's that?"

I answered without looking up. "In Texas. Figured if you guys didn't feel like driving at night, you could shack up in the local motel after you dropped me off."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean demanded gruffly.

I took a deep breath and faced them, planting my hands on my hips. "Look, no offense to you guys, but I'm not just gonna sit around and wait for John to call. Now, I left my mother by herself when I took off, and I have no idea if she's alive or not. I need to go home."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, I don't think so."

The roaring frustration in my head was suddenly replaced with steely calm. I glared right into his amused green eyes. "I wasn't asking for your permission, Hot Shot."

"Oh yeah?" He didn't back down. "And how're you gonna get there? Walk? That's nearly twelve-hundred miles."

"If you won't take me, I'll figure it out. I always do."

"Good luck with that, Princess."

"Did you just--" Before I could lunge for his throat, Sam launched from the bed and placed himself between us. He held his arms out to push us back.

"Both of you, calm down, alright?" he said. He tensed. "Dean."

Dean's eyes were brimmed with a mixture of dark amusement and anger. My face was hot with anger, and I had half a mind to push Sam out of my way. I pressed forward, his giant hand enough to cover my breastbone. He turned to me.

"Grace, please," he begged.

"Gray," I corrected immediately. 

He paused uncertainly, then repeated, "Gray." He turned both hands to me and held them out like a shield. "Just . . . hear me out. Okay?"

I glared at him, but the sincerity in his eyes made me think twice of running for the door. I set my jaw and took a single step back. Sam dropped his arms.

"I know you don't know us," he said gently. "And you have no reason to trust us. But . . . what Dad"--the emphasis he put on the word didn't go unnoticed--"said was true. Whatever's happening is bigger than us. And going back home is exactly what the enemy wants you to do."

"My mother--"

"I know! I know you want to go. But is going back really what she'd want you to do?" he asked. "I mean, she's the one who told you to leave . . . right?"

The truth in his words stung, but it was truth nonetheless. 

Facing the reality that I couldn't go home nearly brought me to tears. My eyes burned and my vision swam. I blinked my tears away as quickly as they appeared; the last thing I needed was for my brothers to catch me weeping like a child. Instead, I cleared the lump in my throat and looked Sam dead in the eyes. Then Dean.

"Fine," I spat. "But as soon as this thing is over, I'm gone."

Dean stepped around Sam and stuck out his hand. I took it. He looked down at me evenly. 

"Deal."


	8. In Texas, We Salt Margaritas

S1:E17--Hell House

Some Time Later...

Pumping rock music woke me so abruptly I fell off my seat. The slick vinyl skidded against my cheek as I became wedged between the front and back seats. I scrambled to find purchase with my hands, settling for the floor when I couldn't find anything else.

By the time I stopped myself from face planting into century old carpet, the song had ended, and all I could hear was Dean's laughter. My surprise quickly evaporated into anger. I growled as I wrenched myself back up onto the seat.

I snapped. "What the hell?"

"Oh, sorry, sis," he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. "Did I wake you?"

I wrinkled my nose at his use of the word sis. "Dammit, Dean!" I snarled, "Good luck wiping the lipstick off your seats."

"You got makeup on my seats?" he demanded, nearly turning his head all the way around.

"No, you got it on your seats," I said. I glanced at Sam, and caught his sour look. "What's wrong with you?"

"Some toddler put a spoon in my mouth," he said. He held up the offending cutlery for me to see. Dean's laughter started up again. Sam glared at him. "Ha ha. Very funny."

"Sorry," Dean said, sounding a little more sincere this time. "Not a lot of scenery here in East Texas. You kinda gotta make your own."

East Texas. Homesickness hit my gut like a pound of bricks. 

"And you couldn't have just started up a game of Eye-Spy?" I asked. "Like a normal brother?"

"Now, where would be the fun in that?" Dean raised his eyebrows at me in the rearview. I didn't miss the peculiar glean in his eyes when I said brother.

"Man, we're not kids anymore, Dean," Sam exclaimed. "We're not gonna start that crap up again!"

"Start what up?" Dean asked innocently. I tried to use a dirty shirt to rub the lip gloss off the vinyl backing. Just because Dean was a jerk didn't mean his car needed to suck too.

"That prank stuff!" Sam answered. "It's stupid, and it always escalates?"

"Aw, what's the matter, Sammy? You afraid you're gonna get a little Nair in your shampoo again?" Dean teased. He looked way too pleased with himself.

"All right," Sam relented, shrugging. "Just remember, you started it."

"Oh, bring it on, Baldy!"

"Okay, I don't know what you guys are talking about, but if either of you put Nair in my shampoo, I will end you." I said.

"Easy, Rapunzel," Dean chuckled. "Nobody's putting anything in your anywhere, all right?"

I whacked him on the back of his hard head, clutching my braid to my chest protectively. He glared at me heatedly through the mirror. I bared my teeth viciously back at him. My agreement to tag along with him was becoming more and more regrettable with every passing hour.

"Where are we, anyway?" asked Sam in an attempt to break the tension. And he was successful.

"A few hours outside of Richardson," answered Dean.

Richardson. Could we really be this close to home? I glanced out the window at the passing foliage. It felt like if I stared hard enough, I would be able to see Fallon right on the other side of the trees.

"Give me the lowdown again," Dean said.

Sam snatched a paper from the dash and said, "All right, about a month or two ago, this group of kids goes poking around this local haunted house--"

Dean interrupted, "Haunted by what?"

"Apparently, a pretty misogynistic spirit," Sam answered. "Legend goes, it take girls and strings them up in the rafters."

"Oh," I drawled. "Perfect."

"Don't worry, Princess, the Big Bad Ghost isn't gonna get you." Dean blubbered like he was speaking to an infant. The ease in which he set off my temper just made me angrier.

I spat at him. "Keep talking to me like that, and the ghost will be the least of your worries, Hot Shot!"

"Anyways," Sam said, bringing us back on task, "this group of kids sees this dead girl hanging in the cellar."

"Anybody I.D. the corpse?" Dean asked.

"Well, that's the thing," said Sam. "By the time the cops got there, the body was gone. So the cops were saying the kids were yanking their chains."

"Maybe the cops were right," said Dean.

"Honestly Sam, this is probably a bust," I said, leaning forward and inserting my head between the two of them. "I grew up a few towns over; I know how these teenagers think. There's not much to do in a small town like this. Kids do all sorts of whacked up crap to entertain themselves."

Sam contemplated that. "Maybe, but I read a couple of the kids' firsthand accounts. They seem pretty sincere."

"Where'd you read these accounts?" Dean asked.

Sam scoffed out a nervous laugh. "Well, I knew we were gonna be passing through Texas, so last night I was surfing some local . . . paranormal websites, and I found one."

"And what's it called?" I could hear the amusement in Dean's voice without even seeing his face. I tampered down a grin of my own.

Sam paused again before continuing, embarrassed. 

"Hellhoundslair.com."

Dean scoffed. "Let me guess, streaming live out of Mom's basement."

I snorted, unable to hold in my outburst. Dean's eyes darted to me in the rearview, and I effortlessly transitioned into a coughing fit.

"Yeah, probably," Sam agreed.

"Most of those websites wouldn't know a ghost if it bit them in the persqueeter," said Dean.

I groaned in disgust and lunged away from him. "Perv," I murmured. He ignored me.

"Look," said Sam, "we let Dad take off, which was a mistake, by the way, and now we don't know where the hell he is. So, meantime, we got to find ourselves something to hunt. There's no harm checking this thing out."

"All right," Dean relented. "So, where do we find these kids?"

"Well, isn't it obvious?" I asked. Both boys gave me furrowed eyebrows. I rolled my eyes and sat forward again. "There's only one place they could be in a town like this."


	9. Rodeo Cowboy

Rodeo Drive In looked exactly how it sounded. The inside dining room as well as the outside tables were packed with teenagers. Rock music blared from the overhead speakers. It was beyond tacky, but just being near it sent a wave of nostalgia crashing over me. The drive in back in Fallon looked almost identical, and immediately, my mouth began to water at the thought of their burgers.

Questioning started almost immediately once Sam recognized one of the boys sitting outside as a kid from the story.

"It was the scariest thing I ever saw in my life, I swear to God," said Table Boy.

Inside, another kid spoke to us from behind the counter. "From the moment we walked in, the walls were painted black."

"Red," countered Table Boy.

"I think it was blood," interjected a girl from inside.

"With all these freaky symbols . . ."

"Crosses and stars and . . ."

"Pentagons . . ."

"Pentecostals . . ."

"Whatever," said the girl, "I had my eyes closed the whole time."

"But I can damn sure tell you this much," said Table Boy. "No matter what anybody else says . . ."

"That poor girl . . ."

"With the black . . ."

"Blond . . ."

"Red hair, just hanging there . . ."

"Kicking . . ."

"Not even moving . . ."

"She was real," the girl insisted."

"One hundred percent," agreed Table Boy.

"And kinda hot," said Counter Kid. He glanced at my disgusted face and added, "Well, you know, in a dead sort of way."

"Okay," said Dean, having heard quite enough. He let out a nervous laugh and looked to Sam.

"And how'd you find out about this place anyway?" Sam asked.

"Craig," answered all three of them at once, seated on the bench across the table from us. I shared a look with Sam and whipped out an official looking notepad.

"Okay," I said professionally, taking a pen out of my pocket. "Any idea where we could find this 'Craig'?"

Craig worked in a music shop on the town's main street. When Sam yanked the door open, the sound of rock music drifted onto the sidewalk.

There weren't many people inside; just a couple here and there browsing through the massive collection of vinyl records on display. As the shop door shut behind us, a young man who couldn't be more than eighteen stepped out from behind the clerk desk.

"Gentlemen, ma'am," he greeted pleasantly, "help you with anything?"

I frowned. I wasn't a ma'am. I wasn't even old enough to drink yet . . . legally at least.

"Yeah, are you Craig Thurston?" asked Dean.

The boy didn't look up from the records he was organizing. "I am."

"Oh, well, we're reporters with the Dallas Morning News," said Dean. "I'm Dean. This is Sam. That's our . . . associate . . . Gray."

I ignored Dean's tone in exchange for the slightly starstruck expression that spread across Craig's face. "No way," he said. "Yeah, I'm a writer, too. I write for my schools lit Magazine."

"Well, good for you, Morrison," teased Dean. I aimed a glare at him, my teeth set on edge from his attitude. Dean met my gaze evenly, a slight grin curling the corners of his mouth.

"Um, we're doing an article on local hauntings," said Sam when Craig watched us expectantly, "and rumor has it you might know about one."

Craig paused. "You mean the Hell House?"

"That's the one," Dean said.

"I didn't think there was anything to the story," Craig said.

"Why don't you tell us the story?" Sam prompted.

"Well, supposedly, back in the thirties," Craig started, "this farmer, Mordechai Murdoch, used to live in the house with his six daughters. It was during the Depression, his crops were failing. Didn't have enough money to even feed his own children. So I guess that's when he went off the deep end."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"Well, he figured it was best if his girls died quick rather than starve to death . . . so he attacked them. They screamed, begged for him to stop. But he just strung them up, one after another. And then when he was all finished, he turned around and hung himself. Now they say that his spirit is trapped in the house forever, stringing up any other girl who goes inside."

Craig's eyes slid from the boys to me. His brown eyes trailed slimily up and down my figure, trying for faux concern and failing. I kept my gaze unimpressed and detached, which seemed to give him the hint that I wasn't interested.

"Where'd you hear all this?" Dean asked.

His attention drawn from me, Craig said, "My cousin Dana told me. I don't know where she heard it from. You got to realize I didn't believe this for a second."

"But now you do," Sam guessed.

Craig paled. "I don't know what the hell to think, man. Guys, I'll tell you exactly what I told the police, okay? That girl was real. And she was dead. This was not a prank. I swear to God, I don't want to go anywhere near that house ever again, okay?"

The three of us shared a single look before Dean said," Thanks."

As we left the store, Sam turned to me. "He seem sincere to you?"

"Yes," I answered. "But any kid not wanting trouble with the cops over a prank would. Don't you think?"


	10. Six Little Darlings Hanging In A Row

'Hell House' was exactly the kind of creepy, abandoned shack I'd expect a homicidal ghost to shack up in. Even from down the road, the decrepit atmosphere radiating from the blackened collapsed house sent an instinctual shiver up my spine. My boots squelched in the soaked mud, drenched weeds splattering my pants with water.

The overcast sky was annoyingly suited for the nature of our visit. The wooded area surrounding the houses made it feel like we were encroaching on some abandoned village. The kind that had some sort of dark, sinister plague story. The cool air reeked of wet plants and mud.

I took a deep breath and sighed. "Looks like Craig wasn't a big fan of The Village."

Sam glanced around at our surroundings. "Can't say I blame the kid."

"Yeah," agreed Dean, "so much for curb appeal."

Hell House sagged on the very edge of the mud road. The wood was black with dampness and rot. The entire outside emanated the sickly sweet scent of wet decaying wood. Without waiting for a cue, I immediately leapt up the slope and began searching the perimeter.

"Hey, wait--" Sam called.

I ignored him, rounding the back corner of the house. I could hear some muffled grumbling from behind me, but I let it go in favor of peering into one of the dirt-encrusted windows lining the back wall. Most of them were too dirty to see through, but some of them had been busted in enough for me to get a glimpse of the inside. I took care to avoid the jagged edges as I stuck my face through the broken windows. The interior of the house was too dark to really see anything, but the air smelled of aerosol and chemicals.

As I drew out my face, a piece of broken glass caught my cheek. I jerked away, the irritated sting of the scratch throbbing. My fingers were dotted with specks of blood, but I dragged my clean sleeve across the wound and pushed it from my mind.

When I returned to the front of the house, Sam was peering into a pile of rotting lumber. I quickly reached out and yanked him away by his sleeve.

"What?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes. "Old Murdoch won't have a chance to string you up if a Cottonmouth gets you first," I said.

"Technically, the kid said Murdoch only goes after girls," Sam replied, though he eyed the pile of wood warily. He glanced at me, and his eyebrows furrowed. "Hey, when--"

A familiar sound snagged my attention. Dean was standing a few feet away, tapping confusedly at a square plastic box. I walked over.

"That pick up anything?" I asked. The meter in his hand was whirring sporadically.

He shook his head. "Nothing useful. EMF's no good." He nodded upwards to the rusting transformer above us. "I think that things still got a little juice in it. It's screwing with all the readings."

Sam had joined us, and was squinting up at the telephone wiring. "Yeah, that'd do it."

Dean stuffed the EMF meter back in his jacket pocket. Sam suddenly leaned in close, stopping his face inches from mine.

"What the hell are you doing?" I demanded, standing completely still under his scrutiny.

"Are you bleeding?" he asked.

The persistent needle-like pain didn't bother me, but I touched the raised scratch anyway. My fingers came away clean. "No."

"Well, here, let me--" His hand reached up with a tissue. I smacked it away.

"Come on," said Dean. "Gray, stay close. Wood's too wet to burn if Old MacDonald turns you into a party streamer."

I rolled my eyes, but followed after him. The front door of the house swung open easily. The interior was permeated with chemical fumes, leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

"Ugh!" I cried, placing a hand over my nose in hopes of dissuading the offending scent.

"What?" Dean asked, seemingly oblivious.

"Do you guys seriously not smell that?" I demanded. 

Speaking only made the taste worse, so I covered my mouth too. The boys exchanged raised eyebrows. Dean shook his head in bewilderment.

Sam turned to me in confusion. The look on his face would have been endearing if not for how much it irritated me. "Smell what?"

I shook my head and dropped my hands, bracing for the smell. "Nothing. Never mind."

I took a deep breath to simmer down my growing annoyance and ease the throbbing in my temples. Already, I was beginning to regret not staying in the car. But at the same time, the last thing I needed was Sam and Dean thinking I couldn't handle myself. I was perfectly capable of handling a case like this. It was a walk in the park.

When I opened my eyes, the boys had begun moving on to the next room. The space located directly to the right of the front corridor seemed to have been some kind of living room. I could make out the skeleton of a mantle on the far side. However, my eyes were much more interested in the walls of the house than the dead fireplace.

Or rather, what was on the walls.

The stone walls were littered with painted symbols. Half-melted candles were scattered about the railing and window sills

Dean whistled in appreciation. "Looks like Old Man Murdoch was a bit of a tagger during his time."

Sam's eyes darted to the far wall. "And after his time, too." He approached a particular symbol painted of the wall in black paint and appraised it. "The reverse cross has been used by Satanists for centuries, but the Sigil of Sulfur didn't show up in San Francisco until the sixties."

I was shocked by his knowledge on the symbol. He recited like he was reading from a textbook. I recalled how he'd mentioned at one point how he'd gone to Stanford.

Dean, on the other hand, was looking at his brother almost in disappointment. He pointed to Sam and said, "Exactly why you never get laid."

The comment caught me off guard, and I let out a bark of laughter before I could stop myself. As soon as I did, I covered my mouth to stop myself from doing it again. Both brothers raised their eyebrows at me before dismissing me in the same moment. I turned away, inspecting a cluster of candles on the mantle.

I stopped short. Upon closer inspection, they didn't seem as ominous as they had at first. In fact, they didn't even seem to be that old. When I peered closely at them, I noticed they had no dust collecting on the surface, and when I lifted them up, there was dust under them as well as around them. I hummed in confusion. If these candles had been used by Murdoch, they would have been completely covered in dust. Their place on the mantle would have been marked by their shape as dust collected around them. But these didn't have any dust at all.

Above them on the wall, creepy chicken feet were pinned to the wall. Nails ran straight through them into the stone. However, when I looked closely at these, the nails had no rust or grime on them. In fact, they were shiny and looked almost brand new. I had a sneaking suspicion about what was going on here, but before I could call over the boys, and crash from the other room stopped me in my tracks.

The three of us froze. My heart jumped in my chest, but I remained frozen. I glanced over at the boys. They took off in the direction of the noise. I followed close at their heels, plunging my hand down to my holster and drawing my pistol.

Dean and Sam dove to opposite sides of a doorway. I took my place beside Dean. Normally, I would have preferred Sam to his obnoxious brother, but with adrenaline pumping through me, I couldn't afford to choose favorites. I leaned over Dean to watch him as he silently counted down.

On his cue, the door was kicked open, and a blinding light seared my


	11. Leave It To The Professionals

The pain that stabbed my eyes was more of a surprise than anything. I shielded them with my arm the best I could while still wielding my pistol, but it was hard to aim at anything with spots swimming across my vision.

As soon as the light appeared, it vanished. I blinked the clouds from my sight, and was left with the visage of two short, crestfallen men. One held up a camera, the other clutching a handheld spotlight in his fists (the kind with enough power to bring down airplanes). The one with the camera sighed in obvious disappointment and turned to his partner.

"Ugh, cut!" he shouted, though it was just the two of them. He sighed again. "Just a few humans."

His partner shut down the spotlight. He turned to us in not-so-subtle irritation. "What are you guys doing here?"

My surprise evaporated into impatience. "Excuse me?"

Sam gently tapped my arm, and I turned my glower to him. I wasn't one to scare for sport.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean asked back.

"Uh, we belong here," sneered the guy with the camera. Even from this distance, he reeked of reefer. "We're professionals."

"Oh, yeah?" I growled. "Professional what? Star Wars figurine collectors?"

"I'm not going to satisfy that with an answer," drawled Camera Guy, "but, for the record, sweetheart, there's a lot of money and dignity in that trade."

"Sweetheart?" I snarled. My vision began to narrow. All I felt was anger; even Camera Guy's shaggy stoner beard made me mad.

Before I could pounce on him like a rabid cougar, Sam's large hands clamped onto my biceps and held me fast. I was so fired up I squirmed for a second, my legs kicking out in frustration. Stoner Beard and his baby-faced partner stumbled back like the roof had come down between us.

"Keep a handle on your Viper, there, pal!" Baby Face cried.

"Calm down, Gray," Sam hissed in my ear, his voice sounding more surprised than anything. "Punching out a couple of douchebags isn't gonna do anything but get the cops called on us."

"It'll feel really good, too," I said through clenched teeth.

Sam's hands tightened. "Gray. I mean it. Cool it, or get out of here."

His warning tone put things into perspective. I blew a strand of loose hair out of my face as I fought to tamp down my anger at the same time I could feel the rapidly-growing embarrassment. I hated that my temper had gotten away from me so quickly. So easily. My whole life I've worked on keeping my emotions under control. Now two wannabe indie movie directors call me sweetheart, and I almost rip their heads off.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Sam was still holding on to me, like he was scared of what would happen if he let me go. I did my best to loosen my posture and unclenched my fists.

I looked over my shoulder at him. "I'm good." He raised his eyebrows, and I gave another nod. "Really."

He pulled away reluctantly. His grip had left red marks on my arms. I hadn't realized just how tight he'd been holding me. Did I really look that crazy?

"Answer the question," Dean snapped. He side-eyed me warily. "Professional what?"

Baby Face still stared at me in fear, grasping his spotlight like a weapon, but Stoner Beard had completely recovered from my savage episode and said, deliberately slow, "Paranormal Investigators."

I immediately had to freeze my irrational irritation in its tracks. I took a deep breath. Jesus Christ.

Stoner Beard reached a hand into the pocket of his puffy vest and pulled out two wrinkled business cards. He presented them to Sam and Dean with a cocky flourish, though I couldn't help but notice how he wouldn't reach anywhere near me. "Here you go. Take a look at that, boys."

"A-And girl," Baby Face corrected hastily.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," Dean groaned.

I barely spared him a glance before leaning over and reading the card in Sam's hands. The font was dramatically bold and drippy, like how you'd expect from the business card of a ghost hunter, but the names meant nothing to me. But apparently they meant something to Sam, because he scoffed.

"Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler," he read. He sized up the two men again. "Hellhoundslair.com--you guys run that website."

Baby Face pointed at his partner and himself in turn as Sam read their names. The bearded one--Ed--nodded. "Yeah."

Dean, radiating bemusement, wandered past the two men casually and said, "Yeah, yeah. We're huge fans."

I bit my lip to keep the smile off my face. Nobody noticed.

"And we know who you guys are, too," Ed said, turning his body to track Dean, as if my brother would suddenly spring on his from behind.

Sam's eyes flashed up from the business card he'd still been reading, genuine fear flashing in his eyes. "Oh, yeah?" he asked, feigning nonchalance. But I caught to look he shared with Dean. I'd almost forgotten the Winchester boys' reputation.

But Ed's reply sliced the sudden tension. "Amateurs. Looking for ghosts and cheap thrills."

"Yeah," said Harry, "so, if you guys don't mind, we're trying to conduct a serious scientific investigation here."

I snorted, "Oh, yeah, sure. Real serious."

Sam elbowed me in the rib. I winced and promptly shut up.

But Harry glared at me. "It is serious," he clarified. His severe expression made it very clear how much he was not playing right now. I nodded in mock agreement.

"Yeah?" asked Dean. He was still inspecting the array of Ghostbuster-esque equipment the 'investigators' had laid out on the decrepit kitchen counter. He examined a pair of what looked to be Night Vision goggles. "What've you got so far?"

"Har, why don't you tell them about EMF?" Ed suggested.

Sam's lip pulled up at the corner. "EMF?" he asked stupidly.

"Electromagnetic field," Harry explained condescendingly. When he turned his back, Sam struggled to fight a full blown smile. I had to turn my head to hide mine. "Spectral entities can cause energy fluctuations that can be read with an EMF detector." Harry produced a gray plastic box from a duffel bag and pulled out its long antenna. The box was complete with cheesy green display and mediocre-looking red meter. "Like this bad boy right here."

As soon as Harry whipped out the antenna, the 'EMF' began whining. I shared a near-laugh with Dean and Sam, covering my mouth with my hand to keep from guffawing out loud.

"Whoa, whoa," exclaimed Harry, looking down at his plastic meter. "It's two point eight mG. It's hot in here." Both him and Ed scanned the room, eyes wide and mystified.

"Wow," said Sam.

"Yeah," I agreed, shrugging. "I had no idea."

"Huh," Dean grunted, "So, have you guys ever really seen a ghost before?"

Ed faced him, his face dramatically distant, "Once," he answered. "We were investigating this old house, and we saw a vase fall right off the table."

He pronounced vase like vaw-z, which kinda pissed me off.

"By itself," Harry added, whispering.

"Whoa!" I cried, stepping forward as if intrigued. "What did it look like? Was it all pale and green like in the movies?"

Ed and Harry leaned away from my advance. Ed stammered nervously, "Well, w-we didn't actually--we didn't actually see it, but we heard it. And something like that, it--it changes you."

Dean nodded, expression soulful as if he sympathized. But when he opened his eyes, I could see the laughter sparking in his green irises. Sam shook his head, exhaling thoughtfully. I took their lead, biting my lip as if the whole conversation made me contemplate my existence.

I couldn't wait to leave. If they said one more stupid thing, I wouldn't be able to hold back my laughter.

"I think I get the picture," said Dean. He pushed off the counter. "We should go, let them get back to work."

"Yeah, you should," Harry agreed earnestly. Ed lifted the recording camera again, making a show of looking through it. He murmured to himself, letting out an unflattering giggle. I raised my eyebrows, but before I could call him out, Dean's voice barked sharply from the other room, "Gray! Let's go!"

I immediately turned and went after them, but not before I heard Ed say, "I'm sorry. That pot we smoked gave me the giggles."

My laughter escaped me in a startling bark as I hopped down the porch stairs. Sam and Dean whirled around abruptly, and I grinned like a cat. "I friggin' knew they were potheads!"


	12. The Commodore Did The Night Shift Better

Cops had set up a patrol around the house after that. Twenty-four hours a day, a marked car sat in front of Hell House, determined to catch any wayward teens sneaking around.

Not that crouching down in the bushes made me feel any more like an adult. Especially with two grown-ass men next to men whispering like they're at a slumber party. I had half a mind to storm out guns blazing and hope the cops standing watch didn't open fire, but the tiny part of my brain that was still rational kept me from completely committing suicide over a ghost.

Sam, Dean, and I stayed huddled behind the brush as a cop walked past, narrowly missing us with his flashlight. I tensed when the light came near, hissing silently between my teeth when it missed me.

"This should be interesting," I murmured, peering out at the treeline.

"Guess the cops don't want any more kids screwing around in there," said Sam.

"Yeah," said Dean, "but we still got to get in there."

I was in the middle of planning out how to get across the yard without getting arrested when the sound of twigs snapping echoed from my left. I whirled on instinct, reaching for my gun. Dean's arm shot out and stopped me in my tracks before I could. I turned to ask him what his deal was, but he made a motion with his hand, telling me to shut up.

His eyes were focused in the direction where the sound had come from. His voice sounded bemused, "I don't believe it."

I followed his gaze. Sam turned to see what we were looking at. With my eyes firmly adjusted to the darkness, I could make out the lumbering, cumbersome figures stumbling through the trees a few yards away. I caught the telltale glint of the cop car spotlight reflecting off Night Vision goggles and camera lenses.

"It's those Hellhound idiots," I whispered. "Great. One more obstacle to get around."

This hunt was just getting better and better.

"I got an idea," Dean said. I turned to him in confusion. Before I could decide whether or not I liked the excited glint in his eyes, Dean rose and cupped his hands around his mouth, "Who you gonna call?"

On instinct, the cops lifted their flashlights to search for the source of the noise. Luckily for us, Ed and Harry had never heard of stealth. Or, you know, common sense.

"Hey, you!" They shouted. Ed and Harry froze in their tracks, illuminated expressions full of shock like deer in headlights.   
"Freeze!"

The two "professionals" immediately turned and high-tailed it back the way they came. The cops were on their heels, shouting as they gave chase. The seamlessness in which Dean pulled off the ruse surprised me so much that I grunted.

"Huh," I said as we rose from the brush. "I can't believe that worked."

"Gray!" Sam whisper-shouted. "C'mon!"

They were already halfway across the lawn. I hurried to catch up, closing the front door behind us once we were inside. I groaned, stretching out my legs. After over an hour crouching in the trees, I was stiff and sore. Sam immediately went to work yanking rock salt shotguns out of the duffle bag. When he handed one to me, I immediately grasped the sawed off muzzle. The weight of it in my hand was oddly comforting against the shadowy, looming feeling of the house.

I cocked my gun. Dean lifted his flashlight, focusing the beam of light on a painted symbol under the stairs. He walked closer and hissed, "Man, where have I seen that symbol before? It's killing me."

"C'mon," Sam whispered. "We don't have much time."

The three of us slowly made our way through the house. The floorboards creaked under our weight, and the wind blowing through cracks in the walls made an eerie whistling noise that sent a shiver down my spine. The police had said that the young woman had hung herself in the cellar. So down we went, the wooden stairs screaming in protest.

I made sure to keep myself between Sam and Dean. I refused to admit my fear, but I adamantly believed that if Mordechai were to show up, my best chance of survival would be in the middle of a Winchester sandwich.

Dim moonlight streamed through holes in the dirt-encrusted windows. Not enough to light our path, but enough to cast an eerie glow through the ancient pickling jars stacked on the shelves. Dean's flashlight swept briefly along the length of the cellar before he focused on the bile-filled mason jars. He plucked one from its shelf and examined it.

After a moment he said, "Hey, Sam, I dare you to take a swig of this."

I heaved an exasperated sigh so heavy and weary I almost passed out. My impulse was to walk away, but the looming spirit of Mordechai kept me firmly in place between my two brothers.

Sam looked over at Dean. "The hell would I do that for?" he asked. His tone was no-nonsense.

Dean paused, then turned back with a shit-eating grin. "I double dare you."

Sam scoffed, turning away. I fought the urge to cuff Dean upside the head, opting instead to say, "You're a moron."

Dean frowned at me. But before he could think of a good comeback, a shuffling sound broke the silence. I straightened immediately, my fraying nerves jumping. Dean's quickly replaced the jar on the shelf and whirled on the wooden wardrobe the sound had come from. I raised my shotgun, my hands steady even as my heart pounded against my ribs.

Sam had his gun trained on the doors, his hand slowly reaching for the doorknob. He gripped it with his fingers, and--glancing first at me and Dean--ripped the door open.

My heart leapt in my chest, but the sight of frightened rodents darting for cover quickly made me feel like an idiot. You'd think that after so many years of doing this, I'd be able to tell the difference between rats and evil spirits.

"Ugh!" Dean groaned over the rats' squealing. He kicking at the rodents as they scurried past him. "I hate rats."

Again, Sam scoffed. "You'd rather it was a ghost?"

"Yes."

As soon as the word left Dean's mouth, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I sucked in a breath, tightening my grip on my gun, my heart beating so fast it felt like helicopter blades. There was movement in the corner of my eye, and I whirled around.

"Sam!" I cried. Faced with the barrel of a shotgun in his face, Sam ducked out of the way. I pulled the trigger, hitting what should have been the ghost's chest as the axe swung down.  
My ears began to ring as Dean and Sam took their shots, the shotguns going off in my ears. It took a moment, Mordechai not seeming to react to the rock salt before he vanished.

"What the hell kind of spirit is immune to rock salt?" Sam demanded.

"I don't know," Dean said.

Not having the patience to entertain their conversation, I grabbed the boys by their sleeves and yanked them in the direction of the stairs. "If these guns can't hurt him, we need to get the hell out of here!"

As we passed by the shelves, they exploded in a spray of wood and glass and bile. Mordechai's axe sent debris flying across the room, and the side of my face began to sting as shards of wood and glass became embedded in my skin. Suddenly, Dean tackled me to the ground, the axe blade swiping the air where my head had been not a moment before.

"Go, go, go!" he shouted, shoving me in the direction of the stairs. I stumbled to my feet, Sam holding off Mordechai's blade just long enough for me to run past him. The sound of sparks flying accompanied a bright orange flash as Mordechai's axe missed us and struck a fuse box instead.

Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I sprinted for the front door. I didn't think to check behind me, but the sound of Sam and Dean's running footsteps at my heels was enough to reassure me that I hadn't left them to die. The front door came into view, but I couldn't afford to slow down. Mordechai's heavy breathing seemed to tickle the back of my neck, blood trickled into my eye, and I flung myself forward.

The front door gave under my weight. I tumbled off the porch, landing with Sam and Dean in a pile on the ground. Not even thinking anymore, I shot to my feet, following closely on Dean's heels and dragging Sam behind me. I briefly caught a glimpse of Ed and Harry standing in front of us, their camera focused on our faces.

"Get that damn thing out of my face!" Dean growled, shoving the two men aside as we ran for the Impala.


	13. Legends Make Liars

I winced as Sam jabbed my face with an alcohol-soaked tissue. It wasn't pain so much as humiliation. I was a hunter. I should be able to take care of myself.

"Just hold still," Sam scolded, struggling to clean the wounds as I squirmed.

Irritated by my own vulnerability, I argued, "I can do it myself, Sam."

He rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored me. As he continued to clean the cuts, he said," Just log onto my computer or grab that book,"--he gestured to an ancient-looking volume with a decaying spine--, "and make yourself useful if it bothers you that much."

I grit my teeth, but knew when I'd lost. I snatched the book from the table in his and Dean's room and started flipping through it. It was mostly theology, mentioning spirits and divine entities of all sorts. I didn't really know where to start, so I just started from the beginning.

Dean spoke up from where he was lounging on his bed, doodling in a motel stationary notepad. "What the hell is this symbol? It's bugging the hell out of me." He paused, then looked up. "This whole damn job's bugging me. I thought the legend said that Mordechai only goes after chicks."

"It does," Sam said. He plucked a shard of glass from a cut on my cheek and I flinched.

"Ouch!" I hissed. "Easy with those tweezers, Operation!"

"Sorry."

Dean continued, "Right. Well, that explains why he went after you two, but why me?"

"Bite me, Meathead!" I snapped, pushed to violence by the stinging in my face.

Dean raised an eyebrow at me, but otherwise didn't react. I had a suspicion that he was either getting used to my outbursts or five minutes away from punching me in the face. I immediately felt guilty for snapping at him, but I was too prideful to apologize. Instead I frowned and returned my attention to the tome in my lap.

"Hilarious," Sam drawled, obviously annoyed by my temper tantrum. He drew away from me and opened his laptop to the Hellhounds website. "Legend also says he hung himself, but you see those slit wrists?"

"Yeah," Dean said. I nodded in agreement.

"What's up with that?" asked Sam. "And the axe, too. I mean, ghosts are usually pretty strict, right, following the same patterns over and over?

"His mood keeps changing," Dean said.

"Exactly," said Sam.

"But what kind of ghost can change their nature like that?" I wondered, mostly to myself.

Sam answered. "I don't know. I mean, not one that I've ever heard of. Ghosts usually stick to one way of existence; one loop in time that keeps them trapped here and rots them from the inside. It usually has something to do with how they died, or who they were in life. I'm telling you, the way the story goes--"

He cut off abruptly, then said, "Wait a minute."

I looked up from the book. Sam was staring at his computer screen, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Dean glanced at him.

"What?" he asked.

Sam said, "Someone added a new posting to the Hellhound site. Listen to this--'They say Mordechai Murdoch was really a Satanist who chopped up his victims with an axe before slitting his own wrists. Now he's imprisoned in the house for eternity.' Where the hell is this going?"

"If this turns out to be some kind of Scooby-Doo whodunit bullshit, I'm killing this bastard myself," I growled, slamming the book on the table in frustration. "This is getting ridiculous. How can we get rid of this thing if it doesn't even play by its own rules?"

Movement flashed in the corner of my eye. Dean sat up in bed, eyes wide with recognition. He was staring at the notepad in his hand. He said, "I don't know, but I think I might have just figured out where it all started."

Rock music squealed over the music store speakers. I cringed at the noise, inhaling the familiar odor of starched covers and vinyl records. My eyes scanned the interior of the store, and it didn't take long to find him.

Craig Thurston, leaning against the counter, gulping down coffee from a to-go cup and staring off into space. I reached over without looking and pinched Dean's elbow. He followed my gaze, and nodded.

"Hey, Craig," he called, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. "Remember us?"

Craig, who'd left the counter, turned to us with a weary sigh. "Guys, look, I'm really not in the mood to answer any more of your questions, okay?"

I raised my eyebrows, but didn't say anything. Sharing a look with Sam conveyed what I was feeling just as clearly.

"Oh, don't worry," said Dean, "We're just here to buy an album, that's all."

Satisfied with our answer--and obviously anxious to get back to his thoughts--Craig turned away from us. I watched with a growing bubble of grim excitement as Dean expertly selected a square from the row of albums and spun it in his hands. As it rotated, I caught sight of the cover art.

Then he turned to us. "You know," he begin in a faux-innocent tone, "I couldn't figure out what that symbol was, and then I realized it could mean anything." He shrugged nonchalantly, but we'd wandered over to where Craig had stationed himself, corralling him like a skittish animal. "It's a logo for Blue Oyster Cult," said Dean. "Tell me, Craig, you into B.O.C. or just scaring the hell out of people?"

Dean held out the album and Craig took it. He flipped it over to where the familiar logo was printed, and sighed.

"Why don't you tell us about that house," Dean continued, "without lying through your ass this time?"

Craig plopped down the record and faced us. Shame was clear in his eyes. "All right," he said. "My cousin Dana was on break from TCU. I guess we were just bored, looking for something to do. So I showed her this old abandoned dump I found. We thought it'd be funny if we made it look like it was haunted. So we painted symbols on the walls, some from some albums, some from some of Dana's theology textbooks. Then we found out this guy Murdoch used to live there, so we--we made up some story to go along with that. So they told people who told other people. And then these two guys put it on their stupid website. Everything just took on a life of its own."

Eyebrows furrowed, I glanced up at Sam. I couldn't tell if this kid was being genuine. He seemed like he was, and it definitely seemed more plausible than his first story, but I'd already heard him lie once. Maybe he was just getting better at it.

"I mean, I thought it was funny, at first," Craig said, "but, now that girl's dead. It was just a joke, you know? None of it was real. We made the whole thing up. I swear."

Craig sniffled into his hands.

"All right," said Dean quietly. I stayed silent, searching Craig's face for any sign of deception. But there wasn't any. His eyes were brimmed with regret, his posture slumped as if in defeat. His face was haggard with exhaustion. He wasn't lying.

"Gray," Dean called. I turned and followed them to the door.

"He was telling the truth," I announced, keeping my voice hushed. "Nobody can fake body language like that."

"Yeah, well, if none of it was real," Dean countered, "then how the hell do you explain Mordechai?"


	14. Allergic to Affection

I'd retreated to my own room after the music store. I couldn't bear to be around the boys anymore, their concern leaking through their pores like bad pipes. They could tell something was off, but I couldn't stand their comfort or their questions.

I shut the door behind me, remembering feeling grateful to Dean for the first time. Booking separate rooms had possibly been the best idea he'd ever had. The immediate relief of solitude washed over me, and with it came the endorphin high. As the excitement of confronting Craig wore off, the last of my defenses collapsed.

All my emotions toppled down on top of each other, and I fought the urges to cry, to scream, to punch a hole in the wall. The boiling tar of my uncertainty and fear bubbled in my chest, burning and clawing to escape. I wrestled with it, fighting to keep the burning in my eyes from spilling--hot and unwanted--down my cheeks. And I won. The lump in my throat loosened, the burning in my eyes cooled. I felt shaky on my feet, and my head was fuzzy like it'd been stuffed with cotton balls, but I didn't break down.

As the room around me stopped spinning, my eyes landed on the duffle bag resting on the bed. The idea of a warm shower and clean clothes sounded like heaven. I unstrapped the holster from my waist, tossing it on the table with more carelessness than usual. My body felt weak and stiff, aching for feeling. I snatched up a handful of random clothes, hoping they would match, and entered the bathroom.

It would take a moment for the water to run hot, so I stared up at the tacky western-themed decorations as I pulled out my phone. I dialed each of Mom's numbers again. Again, I got no answer; Again, I left messages begging her to contact me. I knew I wouldn't hear back from her.

It had been weeks.

She would have found a way to call me back by now.

I waited until steam completely filled the bathroom before I undressed and stepped into the shower. The unyielding spray of scalding water slowly brought me back to life. I took deep breaths as my thoughts cleared. My headache receded and I regained feeling in my limbs. I moaned in pleasure as I lathered shampoo into my scalp. The sheer domesticity of the act felt like a shot of caffeine to the heart. I let the scent of green apple permeate my senses as I rinsed off the remainder of soap and emotion.

I was finishing off the tail-end of my Dutch braid when a rapid tapping rattled my door. I didn't need to look through the peephole to recognize the silhouette standing outside.

Dean was leaning against the door frame, Sam with him. I raised my eyebrows in question, and Dean said, "C'mon. We think we got something."

The diner was the only decent food spot in town. As I sat at our table, watching the boys order and pay, Sam's unusual squirming--and Dean's self-satisfied grin--popped a bubble of humor in my chest. Despite earlier' s near-breakdown, the boys' ongoing childhood game was like a gulp of fresh air.

Dean plopped down my cup as they joined me, speaking to Sam, "All right, so keep going. What about these tulpas?"

"Tulpa?" I asked, sipping coffee. "What's a tulpa?"

"Okay," said Sam, "so, there was this incident in Tibet in nineteen-fifteen. A group of monks visualize a golem in their heads. They meditate on it so hard, they bring the thing to life out of thin air."

"So?" asked Dean.

Sam scoffed. "That was twenty monks. Imagine what ten-thousand web servers could do." He pulls his laptop from his bag, popping it open. "I mean, Craig starts the story about Mordechai, then it spreads, goes online. Now there are countless people all believing in the bastard."

"Okay, wait a second," Dean said, "you're trying to tell me that just because people believe in Mordechai, he's real?"

"Could that even work?" I asked, leaning forward. "I mean, sure, monks claimed it happened, but those were monks. Could normal, everyday people just create monsters with their brains?"

Sam suddenly squirmed, face screwed up in discomfort. He said, "I don't know. Maybe."

Dean shrugged. "People believe in Santa Claus. How come I'm not getting hooked up every Christmas?"

"'Cause you're a bad person," said Sam, "and 'cause of this."   
He turned his computer around so we could see the screen. On it was a photograph of a symbol painted on stone. "That's a Tibetan spirit sigil," Sam explained, "on the wall of the house. Craig said they were painting symbols from a theology textbook. I bet you they painted this not even knowing what it was. That sigil has been used for centuries, concentrating meditative thoughts like a magnifying glass. So people are on the Hellhound's website, staring at the symbol, thinking about Mordechai. I mean, I don't know, but it might be enough to bring a tulpa to life."

"Hell, it sure makes a lot more sense than a moody ghost," I said, giving Sam a smile.

"It would explain why it keeps changing," agreed Dean.

"Right," said Sam. "As the legend changes, people think different things, so Mordechai himself changes. Like a game of Telephone. That would also explain why the rock salt didn't work."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, 'cause he's not a traditional spirit per se." Sam squirmed again, wriggling in his clothes, but Dean kept talking. "Okay, so why don't we just get this spirit-sigil thingy off the wall and off the website?"

"It's not that simple," Sam argued. "You see, once tulpas are created, they take on a life of their own."

"So, what?" I demanded. "Now that this thing's alive, it's stuck here. Just hanging out?"

"Pretty much," said Sam.

Dean said, "Great. All right, so if he really is a thought form, how the hell are we supposed to kill an idea?"

Sam paused. "Well," he said, "it's not gonna be easy with these guys helping us." He nodded to his laptop. "Check out their homepage." Sam clicked his mousepad, and a grainy Night Vision video of last night started to play. Immediately, I was angry. "Since they posted the video, the number of hits have quadrupled in the last day alone."

Dean didn't say anything for a minute, staring at the screen. Then he stirred. "C'mon. I got an idea."

"Where are we going?" Sam asked. He slammed his laptop shut.

"Gonna find a copy store," Dean said.

I quickly threw back the last dregs of coffee, wincing as it burned my throat. As we rose from our seats, Sam once again did a jerky dance in his clothes. His face was a mixture of frustration and discomfort.

"Man," he groaned to Dean. "I think I'm allergic to our soap, or something."

Dean's response was a hearty laugh, face bright with delight. As realization dawned on Sam's face, anger sparked in his eyes.

"You did this?" he demanded. Dean continued to laugh. Sam angrily stuffed his computer into his bag, snapping, "You're a friggin' jerk!"

"Oh, yeah!" Dean chuckled.

I couldn't help the squeaking giggle that left my mouth as I threw my cup away. I tried to cover it with my mouth, but Sam scowled at me.

"Oh, shut up," he growled, yanking his bag over her shoulder so hard he rocked the table.

I continued to laugh as I followed him out the door.


	15. Prank War Espionage

I paused in my work to press the call button one more time. I'd tried each of Mom's cells at least four times as I sabotaged Dean's radio. Normally, I wouldn't get involved, but the thrill I got from screwing with him was worth the temporary truce with Sam. And the twenty bucks now nestled in my pocket.

It was easy enough to break into the Impala; Dean had the keys, but I'd always had a gift for carjacking. I was careful not to leave any marks, and changing the channels was a breeze.   
I listened anxiously to the phone ring as I rewired the windshield wipers. There was a minute of pure ringing, a sudden click, and a familiar voice filled the cabin:  
"You've reached Colette. If you have this number, you know what to do. I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

"Dammit!" I cried, smacking my hand against the steering wheel. I smashed the red End Call button on the keypad and chucked my phone into the backseat.

I took a deep breath to calm the heartbeat pounding in my ears. Frustration was pushing against my skull. Being so close to home and not knowing what had happened was driving me crazy. I had to go. I needed to see if she was okay. If she was even still alive. If Sam and Dean wouldn't take me, I'd ask the cops. I knew the Sheriff. Mom was good friends with him. He'd give me a ride.

With that plan taking up residence in my brain, I replaced the cap on the windshield lever and exited the car. I was careful to make sure it locked back up before taking my place outside City Hall. Sam was doing research inside. I was tempted to join him, if only to get out of the sun, but I thought better of it. No doubt my outburst earlier had thrown him. It had surprised me too.

I was normally in much more control of my temper. Sure, I was a hothead, and Dean's matching stubbornness never helped, but I'd never gone off like that before. Not on anyone. Ever since I was a kid my mom made me aware of just how dangerous rash thinking could be. 'Go ahead and be a hothead,' she'd told me, 'But don't let that bad temper of yours control you.' Now that she was missing, the self-control she'd drilled into me was slowly unscrewing itself. I was struggling to keep a handle on my emotions.

And that kind of recklessness could get somebody killed.  
I passed the time outside City Hall recalling Mom's cells again. It felt redundant; if she'd had access to them, she would have picked up by now. Regardless of the job, she always picked up for me. But I felt useless not doing something to try and reach her.

"Anything?" Dean's deep timbre startled me from my daze. I yanked the phone from my ear, hanging up on reflex. I felt strangely ashamed, like a child with her hand caught in the cookie jar. It must have shown on my face, because Dean clasped a hand on my shoulder. "It's okay, kid. I get it. Where's Sam?"

"Inside, looking up town history. Trying to see if there's even any trace of this Murdoch guy," I said. After a moment I sighed, shaking my head. "I know you said we shouldn't go back. And you're right; I shouldn't. But, Dean . . . she's my mom. She's all I've got, and I know something's wrong."

Dean nodded. His expression was thoughtful, as if he was turning my words over carefully in his head. Finally, he sighed. "All right, kid. Here's the deal. We finish up here, and we'll see about going over to check on your mom."

I leaped to my feet, so excited that I completely forgave the fact that he'd called me 'kid'. My impulse was to hug him, but I reigned in my excitement, certain that he wouldn't appreciate such sudden physical contact. Instead, I beamed at him, and awkwardly tapped his shoulder with my fist. He flashed a crooked grin, and for the first time since I met him, the amusement in his eyes was not malicious.

But as soon as it appeared, the doors of the City Hall swung open, and Sam walked down the stairs. Dean's expression morphed, losing the grin and taking up an expectant stoniness. When Sam reached the bottom of the stairs, he glanced my way, I could see the question in his eyes, but I didn't move.

"Hey," he greeted. I gave him a small smile and a half wave in return.

"Hey," said Dean, facing his brother. "What do you got?"

"Well," Sam began. The two of them started making their way to the car. I hauled myself off the stairs and followed, trying to listen in to what Sam had to say. "I couldn't find a Mordechai, but I did turn up a Martin Murdoch who lived in that house in the thirties. He did have children, but only two of them, both boys. There was no record he ever killed anyone." He turned to Dean. "What about you?"

"Those kids didn't give a clear description of the dead girl," he answered, "but I did hit up the police station. No matching missing persons--it's like she never existed. Dude, we did our digging. This one's a bust. For all we know, those Hellhound boys made up the whole thing."

"Sorry, Sam," I said, leaning against the pole of a parking meter. "I know you were feeling good about this one. But the fact is, teenagers do some really messed up stuff for entertainment. I think this really was all some kind of sick joke."

Sam looked away for a moment, then sighed in resignation, "Yeah, all right."

I heard the familiar jingle of Dean's car keys. "I say we find ourselves a bar and some beers and leave the legend to the locals."

Just the thought of alcohol eased the knot in my chest. "Man, that sounds like heaven."

Dean paused halfway into the driver's seat. He stared at me. "And exactly how old do you think you are?" he asked.

"Twenty," I answered. Dean raised his eyebrows. I rolled my eyes, annoyance already beginning to overshadow the high of Dean's promise. "Oh please, Mr. Truant Officer. This is Texas. I've been drinking since I was a sophomore in high school."

After a moment, he shrugged. "Okay," he relented.

I couldn't help but be surprised. I didn't think it would have been that simple. I expected him to put up more of a fight, if for no reason other than to rile me up.

But as he slid into the driver's seat, me and Sam stayed put on the sidewalk. I waited for the distinct rumble of the Impala's engine, and then the blast of screaming Spanish music erupted from the cabin. The music stopped as quickly as it started, but thanks to my handy work, the dials on the radio were only useful in turning on the windshield wipers.

"What the--" Dean sputtered, struggling to set the controls right.

Sam chuckled as he slid into the passenger side. I was less smooth, having to shove aside Dean's rancid-smelling laundry bag in order to fit in the back seat. But the feeling of victory was no less sweet when Sam licked his finger and smugly earned himself a tally. Dean huffed angrily.

"That's all you got?" he demanded. "That's weak."

"Hey, easy now, Hot Shot!" I protested, leaning forward over the front seat. "It wasn't all that easy breaking into this thing without leaving a scratch. You're lucky I didn't just smash the window."

"You did this?" he asked. His tone was disbelieving, but I caught the glint of pure competition in his eyes. "So Sammy needed help, huh? No wonder it was half-assed. It was bought!"

He turned to Sam, "That is bush league!"

It wasn't until the next morning that we found out about the next death.

When we got back to Hell House, the crime scene was already being wrapped up. The coroner's van was parked by the porch, doors open and ready to receive the body. A knot of dread twisted in my gut. The death of this girl was on us. It didn't matter if everything was pointing against it. We should've burned this house to the ground.

Dark emotions roiled in my chest as the three of us approached the man finishing up his questions.

"What happened?" Dean asked him. I tried to focus on the conversation, but I couldn't pry my eyes away from the house.

It's broken exterior felt like a façade now; a mask covering something much more sinister than an angry spirit. Instincts were ringing in my head, telling me to get away. Normally, the rush of endorphins those instincts caused would have been a rush. I would have been starved for a hunt. But now, as the coroner's team wheeled out a body bag on a stretcher, all I felt was guilt. Guilt and rage.

The anger rose unbidden in my blood, running hot and flashing red. I didn't know what was going on with this sagging old shack, but I was putting a stop to it.

One way or another.


	16. Trailer Park Nerdmobile

Tracking down Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler wasn't hard. All I had to do was walk up to the trailer park manager and ask for the Ghostbusters. Their trailer looked about as ridiculous as I'd expected. Stickers quoting horror movies and sci-fi movies alike were plastered across the metal door. The plastic pink lawn flamingo stared at me with soulless eyes as Dean stepped forward and pounded on the door.

There was a yelp, then a quavering voice--I think it was Harry's--called out, "Who is it?"

"Come on out here, guys," Dean shouted. "We hear you in there."

There as the sound of muffled grumbling, then the door swung open. Ed and Harry leaned out of the doorway, bodies semi-hiding the cluttered interior of their trailer. Immediately, two pairs of eyes fixed on me warily. I shot them a thin smile.

"Look at that," marveled Dean. "Action figures in their original packaging--what a shocker."

I snorted.

"Guys, we need to talk," said Sam. Despite his tone being much more gentle and friendly than Dean's, Zeddmore narrowed his eyes at him.

"Yeah, um," The two of them leapt from their trailer, both being too short to just step down. Spengler was not so subtle in his avoidance of me. "Sorry guys," said Zeddmore. "We're a little bit busy right now."

"Okay, well, we'll make it quick," said Dean. "We need you to shut down your website."

Zeddmore coughed out a laugh and turned to Spengler. "You know, these guys get us busted last night. We spend the night in a holding cell. . ."

"I had to pee in that cell, you know," Spengler told us accusingly, "in front of people. And I get stage fright."

"Why should we trust you guys?" Zeddmore asked.   
"Especially after Chun-Li over here tried to take our heads off last time."

He thrust his chin at me. My smile froze on my face, my lips curling back to expose teeth. Spengler took one step back.

"Look, guys," said Sam, drawing their attention away from me. "We all know what we saw last night, what's in the house. But now, thanks to your website, there are thousands of people hearing about Mordechai."

"That's right," said Dean, "which means people are gonna keep showing up to Hell House and running into him in person. Somebody could get hurt."

"Yeah . . ." said Zeddmore, not looking the least bit convinced.

"Ed, maybe he's got a point . . ." started Spengler.

"No," said Zeddmore.

"Nope," Spengler agreed.

"He's dangerous," Sam cried, staring at the two incredulously. He pointed to me. "Look at what going after him caused!"

I shuffled nervously, not liking being put on the spot. Spengler swallowed hard at the sight of my shredded face.

Zeddmore continued, "Okay, we have an obligation to our fans, to the truth."

Dean chuckled humorlessly. "Well, I have an obligation to kick both of your little asses--"

"Don't be ridiculous," I said to him. "Nobody deserves to pummel these two idiots more than me."

Sam held out a hand. "Guys, hey, hey. Just forget it, alright? These guys--you could probably bitch-slap them both. I could probably tell them that thing about Mordechai. But they're still not gonna help us. So let's just go."

The three of us turned to leave. As expected, Zeddmore and Spengler followed behind us. They demanded to know what we knew, stuttering and stammering through their questions.

"Don't tell them, Sam," Dean said.

"But if they agree to shut their website down--" Sam argued.

"They're not gonna do it," Dean reminded him. "You said so yourself."

"Besides," I quipped. "Who knows how many more people they'll send to that house? Better keep sensitive information like this to ourselves."

"No, wait, wait," protested Zeddmore from behind us. "Don't listen to her, okay? We'll do it."

We'd reached the Impala. Zeddmore repeated, "We'll do it."  
Sam turned to them, seemingly conflicted.

"It's a secret, Sam," Dean warned.

"Don't," I growled, grabbing Sam's wrist as if to pull him away.

After a moment, Sam heaved a gusty sigh. "Look, it is a pretty big deal, all right," Dean and I turned away from him, seemingly disappointed, "and it wasn't easy to dig up, so only if we have your word that you'll shut everything down."

"Totally," breathed Zeddmore, a very unconvincing smile on his eager face.

There was a pause. Dean nodded his consent. "Okay," said Sam. He turned to me. I pretended to be stubborn, shaking my head and huffing in faux- frustration. I gave it a minute, then bit my lip and shrugged.

"Whatever."

"All right," said Sam.

Dean reached into his pocket and produced a crimpled, old-looking document. Contributed by the Richardson Town Library Printer. Zeddmore and Spengler stood there expectantly.

"It's a death certificate," Sam explained, "from the thirties. We got it at the library."

Dean surrendered the paper grudgingly. Zeddmore and Spengler examined it curiously.

"According to the coroner," Sam continued, "the actual cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound."

"He's right," said Dean. "He didn't hang or cut himself."

"Just loaded a gun and blasted his brains on the ceiling," I added, shrugging simply. I suppressed my smirk when Spengler turned a shallow shade of green.

"He shot himself?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Yep!" Sam said. "With a forty-five pistol. To this day, they say he's terrified of them!"

"As a matter of fact," Dean cut in. "They say if you shoot him with a forty-five loaded with these special wrought-iron rounds, you'd kill the son of a bitch."

Spengler gasped in excitement. He was still for a fraction of a second, then he bolted for the trailer, footsteps harried and stumbling. Zeddmore was more composed, going after his friend with slow, measured steps. I could hear him murmuring to himself as he walked away.

Triumph was a giddy flutter in my chest. I quivered with delight, shooting Sam a smirk. My brother appraised me with amused eyes. I tilted my head. "What?"

"Did you really have to mention the brains?" he asked. "I think Spengler was about to puke his guts out."

"That was the point," I said. Wasn't it obvious? "I live to make those two uncomfortable."

"Well, congratulations," Dean drawled. "It worked."

I smiled. Good.


	17. Long Time No See, Deputy

We shacked up at a local restaurant for something to eat while we waited. It wouldn't have been the first time that a plan had relied on a lie, but this one had me anxious. My skin felt like it was covered in ants, and I itched to get up and do something rather than lounge in a booth all day. So when the time came to refill on beers, I jumped at the chance.

I leaned against the counter as I waited for the waitress to come back with the bottles. I tapped my nails against the laminate countertop, striking up a staccato rhythm to pass the time. Only a minute into my new song, a familiar voice spoke up from my right.

"Gray?" I turned. "Gray Winchester?"

The man who'd spoken was a boy no older than I was. His golden blond hair reflected the fluorescent lighting, hazel eyes glittering with intelligence, recognition, and no small amount of mischief. He was grinning timidly, ready to back-track in case he'd gotten the wrong girl. But he hadn't.

I knew this boy.

"Well, if it isn't Tobias Connors." I smiled, memory flashing back to the last time I'd seen him. "Jeez. What's it been? Three years?"

"Just about," he agreed. "Last I saw you, you were graduating high school. Valedictorian, right?"

"Nothing to brag about," I said quickly. I didn't like to think about high school. It represented a false sense of security that I couldn't afford anymore. I changed the subject. "And you? Joined the force after your daddy, huh?"

"Deputy," he said proudly. I noticed the bronze-plated star pinned to his chest and nodded approvingly. Tobias' father Michael was the Sheriff. It seemed only appropriate that Toby should follow in his footsteps. But Tobias was a smart boy, and the distraction didn't hold for long.

"So, what brings you here?" he inquired. His eyes sparked with curiosity.

"Nothing much," I said with a shrug. "Just a little family road trip with my brothers."

I was hesitant to ask the question burning inside me. Toby was a sweet boy, but like everyone else in a small town, he thrived on gossip. Any juicy bite of drama was like a drug to these people. They just couldn't get enough.

But eventually I had to ask. "Say, Toby? Have you, by any chance, heard from my mom recently?"

The question confused Toby. He shook his head. "No. Can't say that I have. At least, not in the last couple of weeks; she calls every now and then to check up on Dad. Why?"

"No reason." I backtracked quickly, recognizing the hungry gleam in Toby's eyes. "Just curious. We've been on the road a while, so I haven't seen her. But we'll be heading back soon. So I wouldn't worry about it."

I'd gestured behind me as I talked to Sam and Dean, who were discussing over Sam's computer at our booth. They didn't notice us talking, but Toby's eyebrows raised.

"Hey, I know him," he pointed to Dean. "He came by the station the other day, asking if we'd had any reports on missing girls. Said he was a reporter or something. What did he say his name was? Something with a D. . ."

"David," I answered with a smile. "Yeah. He's my brother. Him and my other brother, Simon, just can't get away from the work. You know how it is: always going and going and going."

I forced a laugh as Toby conceded. I was beginning to grow weary of conversation when the waitress came over and plopped four cold bottles of beer on the counter. I used the drinks as an excuse to say goodbye. I could tell Toby was disappointed that he couldn't pry more out of me, but he confessed that his lunch break was over, and that he needed to get back to the station.

I lingered by the counter for a few minutes after he left before I took the beers back to the table. The booth that Sam and Dean were crammed in was too small to fit me, so I slid into the seat behind Dean and tried to listen to what they were saying.

"I figure by nightfall," Sam said, "iron rounds will work on the sucker."

"I'll drink to that," said Dean, sounding satisfied.

The two boys clinked their bottles together. I raised mine, but didn't take a sip, too wrapped up in my own thoughts to celebrate with them properly. I ran my fingers up and down the slim neck of my beer bottle, brain moving a million miles per hour.

My chest clenched in worry and dread. Toby said he hadn't heard from my mother in weeks. My mother was nothing if not thorough. She never missed her appointments or messed up her routine. Not for anything. When she was away on rough missions when I was a kid, she still managed to call every night. When I was sick, she still took time during the day to call Sheriff Connors. Now that she was officially radio silent, the uneasiness it sparked in me was overwhelming.

I needed to get home. Now.


	18. Case #1--Down and Dirty

The cops were as easy to distract the second time as they were the first. Sneaking into Hell House was pathetically easy. I could still hear the cackling of the diner automaton as my brothers and I bolted into the house. A quick sweep with a flashlight confirmed we were alone . . . for now.

Dean led the way into the next room. I followed close behind him, Sam covering our six. Dean hissed under his breath. "Man, I barely have any skin left on my palm."

My brain knew he was referring to the outcome for Sam's latest prank, but my brain also knew that he could have phrased it better.

Sam replied from behind us. "I'm not touching that line with a ten-foot pole."

"Can you guys shut up?" I murmured, bristling. I was tense, the excitement of the hunt and anxiety from earlier mixing into a toxic potion that set my teeth on edge.

"Someone's extra bitchy tonight," Dean teased. We'd come to the door to the kitchen. I rolled my eyes as Sam flung it open with his heel.

"Let's just get this over with," I grumbled.

The basement door loomed before us. It was locked shut, but I could still hear the slashing sounds that announced Mordechai's presence. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. My skin quivered around my bones, and my blood roared in my ears.

"Well," said Dean, "You think old Mordechai is home?"

"I don't know," said Sam.

I tightened my grip on my pistol.

"Me neither." The three of us whirled around. I came face to face with the glossy lense of a camcorder. A very familiar camcorder.

"Whoa!" Zeddmore cried, him and Spengler tossing their hands up in frightened surrender. "Whoa. Hey, whoa."

Sam snarled, "What the hell are you trying to do, get yourself killed?"

Zeddmore replied breathlessly, "We're just trying to get a book and movie deal, okay?"

Before I could decide whether or not to just shoot them anyway, the scraping sound from behind the basement door resumed. A tingle ran down my spine, and I aimed my gun at the door. I could feel Zeddmore's eager breath on the back of my neck, but I was too focused to elbow him in the ribs.

"Oh, crap," he muttered. He said louder, "Uh, guys, you wanna open that door for us?"

"Why don't you?" Dean demanded evenly.

There was a brief pause in which everything was still. Then a crack as the lock was broken, and Mordechai's gray spectre rushed through the door with a yell. I immediately began to open fire, pulling the trigger of my gun in rapid succession. Beside me, Sam and Dean spent their rounds. Mordechai lingered--seemingly unaffected by our bullets--before vanishing.

Dean glanced at me and Sam, nodding his head to the side. We broke our formation, splintering into different directions with our guns held ready. I slid over to the ajar basement door, shining my flashlight down the stairs. I retreated down a few--just enough to make sure the coast was clear before returning to the others.

I arrived just in time to see Mordechai's angry figure use his axe to smash the camcorder out of Spengler's hands before he vanished again. Spengler lay curled up on the ground, breathing hard and whimpering in surprise. I grit my teeth and snatched up his shirt collar, lifting him by his scruff like a kitten before setting him on his feet.

"Hey!" Dean snapped. I heard Sam's footsteps hurry around the corner behind me. "Didn't you guys post that B.S. story we gave you?"

"Of course we did," said Zeddmore.

"Yeah, but our server crashed," added Spengler.

"So it didn't take," Dea concluded. The two men nodded. Dean held up his pistol. "So these guns don't work."

"Uh," Zeddmore stuttered. "Yeah."

"Shit," I hissed under my breath.

Dean grinned sarcastically. "Great," he said. "Sam, any ideas?"

Sam threw his arms up in an obvious gesture of what-do-you-think? Dean's eyes flickered to me. "Gray?"

"Could always take me up on that dare," I shrugged, sweeping a hand in the direction of the basement. My brother scowled at me.

"We are getting out of here," Spengler was telling his friend. He turned to leave. He turned back when Zeddmore didn't follow and grabbed him by the jacket. "C'mon, Ed!"

The two pushed past Dean on the way to the front door. But they weren't out of sight for even a minute before the screams started. Under their frightened squeals, I could hear Mordechai's growl. Sam immediately bolted after them. I was about to follow when Dean grabbed my sleeve and held me back.

"I have an idea," he said. He tugged me in the direction of the basement.

When we got to the bottom of the stairs, he rummaged through the shelves before tossing a bottle in my direction. I caught it in surprise, and examined the front.

"Lighter fluid?" I asked. His idea was beginning to piece together in my mind, and I stared at him incredulously. "Are you crazy?"

"These guns don't work," Dean said, popping off the top of his bottle and beginning to coat the floor and walls in fluid. "If we can't get rid of him, we'll get rid of the next best thing. If you've got a better plan, I'd love to hear it."

I didn't, and he knew it. I didn't say anything, but I reluctantly popped open my lighter fluid and squirted stripes on the stairs. We worked as quickly as possible, all the while listening to the sounds of a fight echoing from upstairs. My blood was roaring in my ears, arms quivering with the strength I was using to crush every last drop out of the bottle.  
When my bottle ran dry, we'd coated half the kitchen. I was just about to fetch more from the bag we'd left in the other room when a familiar voice cried out.

"Go!" Dean snapped at me, shaking the last dregs of fluid from his bottle. I didn't wait for more prompting. I discarded my bottle, darting toward Sam's voice. Spengler and Zeddmore rounded the corner on the other side of the living room, sprinting past me on the way to the front door. The closer I got, the more clear I could hear Sam's gasping breaths.

Mordechai had Sam pinned against the wall when I found them. The handle of Mordechai's axe was pressed against Sam's throat, choking him and holding his feet above the ground. Mordechai's face was inches from Sam's, growling in his face, baring rotten teeth. Anger lit up in my chest.

I gave a feral cry as I launched myself onto Mordechai's back. It wasn't enough to floor him, but the surprise of my attack was enough for the Tulpa to release my brother. As Sam was left gasping on the ground, Mordechai's growl vibrated through his body. Before I could let go, he slammed back against the opposite wall, knocking the air from my lungs. I stubbornly refused to let go, but Mordechai wrapped a chilly hand around my wrist and flipped me over his head. The world was a disorienting blur of color before I slammed into the floor. I gasped for breath, struggling to regain my footing when a bolt of sharp pain pierced my skull.

Modechai had grabbed a chunk of my hair, lifting me up until my feet no longer touched the ground. I held in my scream, gritting my teeth as I kicked and scratched the Mordechai. My struggling didn't seem to phase him, and his nasty smile only grew. Black spots cropped up in the corners of my eyes.

"Hey!" A sudden flare of orange light accompanied by a blast of heat made Mordechai release his hold on me. I crumpled to the ground, my head throbbing. Dean shouted, "Go, go, go!"

Sam's arm slung around my back and hauled me to my feet. I shrugged him off, bolting past Dean with Sam on my heels. Dean's homemade flamethrower went out as soon as me and Sam were behind him. Sam paused to catch his breath against the wall, and despite my throbbing head, I yanked him along.

"Come on," Dean heckled, pushing us toward the front door. 

"If Mordechai can't leave the house and we can't kill him, we improvise."

With us safely across the living room, Dean pulled out his lighter. With a click and a toss, the entire room was engulfed in flames. Sam started, gaping at Dean like he wanted to protest, but I didn't let him.

"Let's get out of here." My voice was breathless and quiet, but it was enough to stir the boys into motion.

Sam and Dean followed me out of the house, covering their faces against the heat of the rapidly-growing flames. By the time we'd made it to the safety of the brush-line, the flames had reached the attic of the house, it's destructive orange-red fingers grasping at the air above the roof.

"Whoa," I marveled, watching the fire light up the night.

"That's your solution?" Sam demanded. His voice sounded incredulous. "Burn the whole damn place to the ground?"

As the boys argued, the black silhouette of Mordechai stood in the doorway. The Tulpa gave us one long, last, baleful glare before dissolving into nothing.

"No one will go in anymore," explained Dean. "Look, Mordechai can't haunt a house if there's no house to haunt. It's fast and dirty but it works."

Glass shattered in the distance as the fire decimated Hell House.

Sam argued, "What if the legend changes again and Mordechai is allowed to leave the house?"

Dean shrugged. "Well, then, we'll just have to come back."

Their argument dropped off as they joined me in watching Hell House burn. The crackling and wild motions of the fire were oddly soothing. The warmth radiating from the flames reached us in the brush, chasing away the cool night air with the faint promise of blistering heat.

I took the silence as an opportunity to speak. "All this," I said, "because of some stupid pothead website. What next?"

Behind me, Sam murmured, "Kind of makes you wonder--of all the things we hunted, how many existed just 'cause people believed in them"

I pressed my hand to the throbbing spot on my skull as I mulled his words over and over in my brain. By the time we'd loaded into the Impala and drove away, I still hadn't been able to get them out of my head.


	19. Who Didn't Call the Ghostbusters?

Spengler and Zeddmore wasted no time in packing up their trailer. When we'd arrived at the trailer park to check up on them, we'd found their campsite stuffed and tied and folded up, hitched to their ancient, suffering car and parked outside the park general store.

I'd made the unanimous decision to wait for them by the picnic table . . . by plopping myself down on the bench and slumping against the table like a ball of putty. Exhaustion was beginning to seep into my bones, leftover adrenaline causing my limbs to shake. Neither boys argued with my proclamation. Sam leaned against the table in semi-compliance, Dean hovering silently nearby.

My head didn't hurt so much anymore, though I knew I'd bled just a little. I tried not to pass out as we waiting for the dweebs to show, but sleep was tugging at me like I was a dog on a leash.

"Gentlemen."

"Hey, guys," said Sam. I lifted my head from the cocoon of my arms and stood. I shook off the haze of sleep as Spengler and Zeddmore walked to their car, arms laden with paper grocery bags.

"Should we tell them?" Spengler asked Zeddmore, very obviously.

"Well, you might as well, you know--they're just gonna read about it in the trades," said Zeddmore. When he turned to look at us over his shoulder, I contemplated punching him in the face.

Spengler said, "So, this morning we got a phone call from a very important Hollywood producer."

"Oh yeah," said Dean. "Wrong number?"

"No, smartass," said Zeddmore. "He read all about the Hell House on our website and wants to option the motion-picture rights, maybe even have us write it."

As Zeddmore tossed his bag of groceries into the front seat of his car, Spengler popped up his head from the other side. "And create the RPG."

"The what?" Dean asked.

"Role-playing game," Spengler explained.

Dean said, "Right."

"It's a little lingo for you," said Zeddmore. "Anyhoo, excuse us. We're off to la-la-land."

"Well," I said, "at least that we agree on."

"Just you wait, Lara Croft," Zeddmore said calmly. "When we're rich and famous and live in huge mansions up on Beverly Hills, you'll be begging to get with us."

"I guess I'll just have to hope one of them takes me out before it comes to that," I replied, nodding my head to my brothers.

Zeddmore continued to gaze at me evenly. I didn't back down, engaging in his staring contest until Sam broke the silence.

"Congratulations, guys," he said cheerfully. "That sounds really great."

"Yeah, that's awesome," joined Dean. He pinched the cloth around my waist and firmly pulled me back before I could pounce on Zeddmore. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders to hold me in place. "Best of luck to you."

"Oh, yeah, luck," said Zeddmore, "it's got nothing to do with it. It's about talent, you know--sheer, unabashed talent."

Spengler nodded in solemn agreement I quivered as I struggled to hold in my giggles. Dean squeezed my shoulder in warning.

Zeddmore threw up a peace sign. "Later."

They slid smoothly into their car. Zeddmore turned the key, and the tortured sound of the engine turning over made my throat tickle with a cough of sympathy. As the engine settled, Zeddmore sighed and removed his glasses for a dramatic exit. "See you 'round."

"Ugh, I sincerely hope not," I said through a clenched grin.

Zeddmore winked smugly at me as the two drove off. As their dinky trailer slowly passed us, Dean relaxed with a sigh. I threw off his restricting arm and turned on him. "One punch wouldn't have killed him."

"Trust me," he said. "It would have."

"Don't worry, Gray," said Sam, clapping his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sure we'll see them again."

"I really hope we don't," I admitted, wrinkling my nose at the thought of seeing those two dickwads again. "If I never see those idiots again, it'll be too soon."

Dean whistled. "Wow."

I scoffed, "And too think those Ghostbuster-wannabe's made it to Hollywood . . ."

Sam paused. "I have a confession to make."

"What's that?" Dean asked. We were already making our way back to the Impala.

"I was the one who called them and told them I was a producer."

Sam's 'confession' was so genuine and almost guilty that it startled a laugh out of me. Dean's delighted cackle joined in as we reached the car.

"Well," said Dean, "I'm the one who put the dead fish in their backseat."

I laughed at that too. I pointed to myself as well, confusing them

"What?" Sam demanded.

I calmed down long enough to say, "I changed all their radio stations too"

We laughed again. Once we'd calmed down, Sam said, "Truce?"

Dean looked up and said, "Yeah, truce--at least for the next one hundred miles." Dean turned to me and nodded, suddenly much more serious. "All right, kid. We made a deal. Mordechai's dealt with--at least for now. Let's go check on your mom."


	20. Home Sweet Home

Spending the night in Richardson was the hardest decision I had to make in a while. I didn't sleep much, though Sam and Dean encouraged me to try. By the time the sun rose, I had only gotten a couple of hours of sleep. Despite the excitement I knew I should be feeling, I couldn't help but focus on the ever-growing sense of dread wriggling in my stomach.

The drive from Richardson to Fallon only took forty-five minutes. Heading to my mother's house took another twenty. An hour in the car with my brothers--regardless of how supportive and understanding they were trying to be--just left me more on edge than normal. I spent the car ride loading and reloading my pistol, genuinely enjoying the annoyed glances Dean gave me in the rearview mirror. It was probably the only time I smiled the whole trip. I fully expected Dean to slam on the brakes halfway into my anxiety-driven clicking and spinning, but to my surprise, he was much more tolerant to my antics than usual. Maybe he was going easy on me because of my circumstances. The thought made me even more nauseous, so I chose to believe than he cared too much about his precious Impala to risk slamming on the breaks in the middle of Texas traffic.

Amazingly, both boys made it all the way to Fallon's only stop-and-go diner before they said anything. The sudden stop of the car pulled me from my thoughts and left me staring at the familiar loopy neon sign. I leaned forward to put my head between Sam and Dean, who were still sitting in their seats.

"What are we doing here?" I demanded, my voice coming out harsh and snappish.

"Easy, Squirt," Dean placated. "We left first thing, we need fuel."

"No," I insisted. Just the thought of eating made my stomach turn. "I need to check on my mother. And don't call me 'Squirt'."

"Gray," said Sam. It was the first time he'd spoken the whole trip. When he turned to me, his eyes were gentle, solidifying the lump in my stomach. "I know how important this is to you this is; trust me, I do. But you need to eat something. I mean, what else are you gonna do; sit here and play with your gun some more? You're not gonna help your mom unless you're at your best."

He had a point. He had a point, and I hated him for it. I clenched my jaw, working it back and forth as I fought the urge to snap at him and instead holstered my pistol. Sam took my gesture of goodwill as surrender, and his small, grateful smile had me itching to pull my gun back out. Before I could, though, Dean popped open his door, signaling his patience was over, and that food was needed. Now.  
I reluctantly followed the boys inside. The familiar grease-and-syrup scent of the diner washed over me in a sudden wave of childhood nostalgia. The faded mustard yellow and red booths squeaked in protest as Sam slid over to make room for me. Dean immediately snatched up the laminated menu, hungry eyes scanning the list of House Specials while Sam began to grill me.

"Now, are you sure your mom's in trouble?" he asked. He shrugged. "Maybe she's just laying low. It's only been a couple weeks since you left."

But I shook my head, quickly running out of patience. "No. You don't get it. My mother's not like that. She's careful, but thorough. She'd have contacted me by now."

"Maybe she went on vacation," mocked Dean, raising an arm to flag down a waitress. "Twenty years with your cranky ass and I'd leave too."

His light tone drew out a snarl from my throat. "Is this all some kind of a joke to you?"

His smile didn't move, but whatever humor it held vanished. He answered. "Of course not. But you need to relax. Whatever we find here, it's not gonna be better or worse no matter how pissed off you are."

I leaned forward, coiled for a strike I was desperate to make. But I knew--in the back of my mind--that Dean was right. I was lashing out, fear and anger roiling together in a cocktail I didn't want to deal with. So instead of launching myself across the table, I let Sam guide me back into my seat. I struggled to reign in my emotions, fiddling with a pile of salt I'd poured onto the table.

I didn't notice that the waitress came to our table until I heard her speak. "Gray!"

I looked up. The waitress was an older woman with a blonde bun and red stiletto nails. She was pudgy, wore orthopedic shoes with her uniform, and the name OLIVIA was printed in bold letters across her nametag.

It took me a second to recognize her. And when I did, I forced a smile onto my face.

"Heya, Liv," I greeted halfheartedly, sweeping away my salt pile. "How've you been?"

"Well, you know," she drawled. "Same old. My old man's run off with the babysitter again."

Her nonchalance surprised me. In all the times she had mentioned her infidelity-prone husband Marcus, it had been with passion, spitting curses and hissing obscenities. I had known Olivia since I was a kid, my mother having brought me to the diner almost once a week up until I turned sixteen. After that, I was the one to take her as proof that I could successfully pull off scams in order to fund my missions. But no matter how grumpy my mother was, Olivia's attitude never changed.

When I narrowed my eyes at the waitress, perplexed as to why her cheating husband's antics no longer bothered her, I found that it was not a sudden change in feelings. It was because she was so wrapped up in staring at Dean to focus on much at all. Her gossip-hungry eyes took in every inch of my Casanova-wannabe brother, curious and beady.

"And who are these handsome young men?" she asked, voice trying and failing to appear nonchalant. The insistent undertone was all too clear to me as I answered.

"Liv," I said, "these are my brothers. Sam, Dean, this is . . .Liv. I've known her since I was little."

"Brothers, hm?" Liv prodded, turning to me with a smile. "I didn't realize you had siblings, Gray."

"Half-brothers," I clarified. "We only just recently got to know each other; I was visiting with my Dad. Decided I'd pop on by and check up on Mom before we head back out."

My subtle dig on information about my mother was not lost on sweet Liv's dull brain. The hen-like waitress turned her polite-yet-hungry grin into a genuinely worried furrow between her brows. She tore her eyes off of Dean long enough to say, "How is she, then? Haven't seen her in a few weeks; I was worried she'd been under the weather or something."

"I'm afraid I don't know, yet. We just got in." Liv's indirect confirmation of my mother's disappearance hit me like a blow to the gut. Immediately nausea made my head pound and I struggled to keep myself from hurling last night's jerky strips all over Liv's white velcro sneakers.

"So you haven't seen her, then?" I asked. "At all?"

Liv shook her head, oblivious to my panic. "No, sorry hon. She's been M.I.A. Hasn't even come in for her weekly coffee and breakfast. You know she's the only one in town that eats my hashbrowns? Since she's been gone, I haven't had the chance to make 'em. Shame, really. Just bought a fresh batch of potatoes. . ."

Either Liv didn't notice, or she ignored my sudden green complexion. She continued blabbering, trying to strike up conversation with Dean while Sam focused on keeping me in my seat. Despite his lanky form--which often left much to be desired--Sam's hidden strength broadcasted through the firm grip he kept on my arm. I doubted I could've broken free even if I'd wanted to.

Eventually, Dean was able to coax Liv into taking our drink orders. When she sauntered away, the room was still spinning. I sucked in deep breaths, exhaling through my nose and slowly flexing my fingers. Eventually I calmed down enough to realize how much of a fool I was making of myself. I grit my teeth in frustration and forcibly straightened, clearing my throat and smoothing my hair away from my face.

"Okay," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. "Alright. It's fine."

"Gray?" Sam's voice called me out of my haze. His sympathetic eyes made me feel queasy all over again. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, blunt and final. I didn't convince him, but he backed off with a shrug.

Dean sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Listen, kid," he said, pinning me down with his serious stare in a way that left me wriggling in discomfort. "I get that you're worried. Okay? It makes sense. And me and Sam; we're gonna do everything we can to help you find your mom. But you're gonna have to work with us. Cut the sulky teenager bullshit. We're not the enemy, Gray. Alright? We're fa--" he stopped short, eyes clouding with a series of emotions I couldn't read. "--we're your friends."

His scolding--while deeply unappreciated--was surprisingly comforting. His lashing and abrasive form of affection calmed me down much more than Sam's gentle coaxing. Even with his hesitation, Dean's blunt honesty felt trustworthy. At least I never had to wonder what he was truly thinking. I always knew where I stood with Dean. I knew he still wasn't quite sure how to feel about me yet. I didn't know how to feel about him either. But, if anything, his straightforward way of communication eased my mind enough that when Liv returned, I was able to order breakfast.


	21. Did I Truly Prefer the Ugly Truth?

I grew up in a simple two story ranch house on the outskirts of town. It was surrounded by four acres of land, and guarded by a swinging gate that was held shut by a thick chain.

When Dean drove up to the house, the chain was left broken and limp, the gate half-open. The fence behind dented from the force of the gate being driven into.

The house was far enough from town that nobody local would have noticed anything amiss. My mother and I rarely entered town for anything other than annual breakfast. Groceries were picked up once every couple of weeks.  
The townspeople would be getting suspicious soon.

The driveway was made of gravel. One time, when I was around seven or eight, I fell playing with a toy airplane and skinned my knee. It stung like crazy, and when it bled, I felt like crying. It was the first time that I hadn't.

Dean didn't groan about the dust or the rocks damaging his car. I think even he could feel the heaviness of the air. Sam was silent too, No one said a word. No snide comments regarding my house's cartoonish red window shutters or the dozens of decorative wind chimes singing on the front porch.  
No.

Everyone was too busy staring at the front door. Slightly ajar and untouched.

The car came to a stop in front of the house. My mother's dark blue car was still parked in the spot I'd left it. Unmoved. Ordinarily, I would have rathered Sam and Dean wait in the car while I entered the house. A large part of me wished for it now. But another part of me--a part saturated with fear and a heavy, heavy sense of dread--desperately wanted them near. The feeling wasn't so much longing for them personally, but rather a primitive need for companionship. A safety in numbers.

I approached the front door in slow motion. The gravel crunched under my feet, the normal sound echoing and impossibly loud. As I approached the front steps, a pair of toddler's handprints sunk in the cement snagged my attention. Beneath the tiny hands was my name, and the date. I had done those when I was six months old.

I pulled my pistol from my waistband. Crossing the porch, instinctively avoiding that one squeaky floorboard, and forced myself through the front door.

The hinges squealed. Immediately, sets of frenzied muddy footprints stained the wood floor. It rained that night, I remembered. The mud was dried and crusted, indicating that they had been there for a while.

I was experiencing that moment of clarity one feels when in the middle of a crisis. When the dread and anxiety is so strong that it pushes your primitive brain into overdrive. I noticed the stench before I entered the house, and when I gingerly nudged the door open, it slammed to a stop halfway. When I looked down, a prone human leg blocked my path.  
Strangely, I felt no emotion upon discovering a leg. I was acutely aware of Sam and Dean's anticipation behind me, but I didn't share their feelings. I was oddly numb, as if my head was stuffed with cotton balls, and everything was moving in slow motion. I stepped coldly over the body, making out the face of a young man and a gory chest wound as I passed. The dark brown color of dried blood mixed with the black coagulation of the hole swirled in my mind like a morbid cocktail.

Sam and Dean were following close on my heels, twin pairs of heavy footsteps shadowing me. I had a vague sense of Sam calling my name. I couldn't tell if it was a warning or a summoning, but my mind was too detached to really register.  
I was too busy following the trail of bodies leading to the living room. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see stray corpses littering the staircase and scattered across the kitchen and dining room. The doorway to the living room was guarded by rotting corpses, dried blood splatter painting the walls.

I could feel my heartbeat thrumming. Blood roared in my ears. My grip was slick and slippery on my gun. So slippery that when I finally entered the living room, the pistol slid from my grip. The dull thud of it's impact with the floor finally brought everything back into focus.

Bodies littered the living room floor and furniture. Brown stains of dried blood hid the original red couch. In contrast, black coagulated wounds festered on the corpses. Every body was dressed in black leather. There was a mix of both men and women. I couldn't see many of their faces, and I didn't care to. I was too focused on who was sitting in the middle of the room.

It was my mother.

She was lounging in one of the loveseats by the fireplace. Her head was leaned back, blonde hair askew and tangled in a rat's nest. Her blue eyes were open and blank, staring up at the ceiling. Her clothes were ruined with giant black coagulated holes.

That was all I could process before a large hand clamped onto my shoulder and pulled me away.

I didn't fight it. In fact, I reacted purely on instinct. I spun around, throwing my arms around the first solid thing I could find. I buried my face into Sam's shoulder, struggling to breathe, shaking. Sam wrapped his arms around me, pinning me against him and preventing me from turning back around.

"It's okay," he murmured, trying to calm me down. "It's okay; you're okay. Everything's gonna be fine."

I didn't believe him. I couldn't. How could he possibly know that everything was gonna be okay? How could anything be okay again?

Tears blurred my vision. I still had enough sense to blink them away. Shock gave way to another wave of numbness. I slowly--gingerly--extracted myself from Sam's sheltering embrace. My body refused to turn back to my mother; refused to put my mind through any more pain. So instead, I shuffled away from the living room.

I passed Dean in a daze. He didn't try to stop me. He just let me shamble away through the front door. I didn't make it far.  
I collapsed on the porch steps. My hand--stretched out of instinct to catch me--landed on the deep impressions of my toddler hands.

I could hear Sam and Dean's distorted voices murmuring inside the house. There was shuffling, running footsteps, a distant splashing sound before a faint wafting odor of gasoline.

I was aware of Sam putting his hands on my shoulders and lifting me to my feet. His arm wrapped around my shoulders and escorted me back to the car. When I glanced over my shoulder at the house, I could see Dean's silhouette moving from room to room.

"Come on," Sam coaxed. His words didn't penetrate the protective bubble my mind had put up, but the familiar tenor of his voice was comforting. Like a dim gold light in a pitch black cave, shining behind a pane of frosted glass. "It's okay, Gray. I've got you."

After he'd placed me in the backseat and shut the door, he messed around in the trunk. I didn't turn around the see what he was doing, but when he was done, he bounded back into the house empty-handed.

I didn't look back at the house. Not when I could see the orange flames erupting in every window. Not when the flames began shattering the windows. Not when Sam and Dean slid back into the car, and we were driving away.

It was a long time before any of us said anything. I couldn't find my voice. Everything just seemed so surreal. It couldn't be true. My mother couldn't be dead. Mom was forever. She was invincible and fearless and incredibly smart. She was too large for life. What kind of creature could have taken her down? Nothing I'd ever faced before. And nothing--I think--that any of us have faced before.

But finally, when the yellow street lights of Fallon, Texas were far behind us, Dean glanced at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes were--once again--unreadable and cloudy with thoughts I couldn't read.

"Gray," he said. My name sounded strange in his voice. "Are you gonna be okay?"

I didn't answer him. I couldn't. My voice was gone. I simply stared at him blankly, my face feeling frozen and cold even from the inside.

The only warmth came in the form of a single tear streaking down my cheek.


	22. Haze

The rest of the night passed in an incomprehensible blur. I don't remember most of it; flashes of passing trees, snippets of muffled conversation between Sam and Dean.

I didn't feel much that night. Not pain, or denial, or anger. Mostly just numb. A shrouding veil of surreality that protected my mind from the trauma it had endured. I recall flashes of blood, dead bodies, and the passionate burning of gasoline flames. Other than that, almost nothing.

I knew my mother was dead.

The fact hammered in my skull like it was being secured with a jackhammer. But it didn't feel real. The reality and finality of it registered, but it failed to penetrate the protective bubble my mind had built around itself. It was like only a fraction of me understood the gravity of what I had discovered in my house. The rest of me simply refused to accept the truth.

I sat in a daze in the backseat of my brother's car for what felt like hours. Maybe it had been. I spent most of the time trying to sleep, my head turned away from the window in case I would open my eyes and see my house burning again.

When I finally was able to glance out the window, I saw them. The flames. Flickering orange light filled the sky and heat sucked the air from my lungs. My heart leaped and skipped in my chest, my breathing an erratic staccato tempo. My vision blurred in panic, and I was about to bust out the window to escape the heat when a hand shot from the darkness and clamped onto my wrist.

"Hey!" Sam soothed, his voice snapping me out of my fear. His eyes were wide and soft. "Hey, you're okay. You're safe."

I turned back to look at the flames, bewildered that he didn't see them. But when I looked, there was nothing. No flames. No blistering heat. No burning sky. Only a cursive neon motel sign flickered back at me, it's dull orange glow dim and faded.

I was hyperaware of Sam's grip on my arm. When it was apparent that I wasn't about to kick the door down, he released me, and I quickly retreated against the seat. Now that the fear had gone, I once again felt numb. My heart slowed to a steady rythym and my breathing returned to normal.

I could hear Sam speaking to me, but the sheet of glass between us muffled his words. I ignored him anyway.  
I hadn't noticed that Dean had left the car, same as when I didn't notice him climb back in. The car pulled into the motel parking lot by itself, the purr of the engine under the seats and in the frame my only sensation. I didn't react when the car lurched to a stop. I didn't move when the engine shut off. Only Dean's voice roused me again.

"Hey," he said. My eyes found him in the front seat. "We're stopping here for the night. We crossed the border into Louisiana an hour ago."

Border. I took my first real look outside. The sky was a black inky mass, solid with no pockets of light. So unlike how it was back home. I didn't realize so many hours had passed. No doubt if I checked the clock, it would be after midnight.

That was fine.

Not like I would sleep anyway.

My limbs felt like blocks of lead. I made it as far as to sling my legs out the car door, but the thought of supporting my own weight felt impossible. Instead, I sat on the edge of my seat and watched blankly as Sam and Dean hauled the bags into the motel rooms.

If either of them commented on my uselessness, I didn't hear it. I was vaguely aware of time passing until Sam returned to the car one last time . . . for me. I watched him but didn't speak as he wrapped an arm around my waist and escorted me inside.

The room was unremarkable, at least by what I remember. The lights were decent, and the blankets didn't itch when you sat on them. Sam left me perched on the edge of one of the beds and joined Dean by the pile of bags on the bed beside me. They talked in hushed tones, and I could've overheard them if I'd tried, but I didn't. I didn't know what they were talking about, and I didn't care.

Mom is dead. The words echoed in my mind like a ghostly broken record, every few seconds reminding me of what my brain was trying to forget.

My eyes focused on the blank Easter-yellow walls until a shadow blocked my view. I looked up when Sam sat next to me, eyebrows furrowed.

"Gray," he said. He spoke hesitantly, and his voice was gentle. He held up a black container. "What are these?"

I focused on the plastic tube in his hand. It was sealed by a childproof cap and had a white pharmacy sticker labelling the outside. My name was printed in bold capital letters.

I took the bottle from his hand and twisted the cap. The familiar capsules inside rattled at me. I shook one into my hand and threw it back.

"Wait--" Sam exclaimed.

"Medicine," I replied. My voice sounded hoarse and far away. Like it didn't belong to me, but to another person, and I was listening to them speak.

Sam's lips moved again. "For you?"

The voice that was mine but also wasn't answered, "There's something wrong with my immune system. It's weak. I get sick easy. This helps."

There was a pause. Sam looked over his shoulder. Dean came over, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Gray," he said. I looked up at him. "I'm sorry about your mom."  
I nodded, not saying anything. A silent tear ran down my cheek.

Dean continued. "You can't go back to Fallon. They'll be looking for you. We'll rest here for the night, but we need to get you as far away from there as possible. Just until it's safe."

I shook my head slowly. "It'll never be safe." Another tear dripped off my chin. I looked blankly up at him. "I can never go home again."

Dean didn't have anything to say to that. His face was stoic as always, not betraying any emotion. I could tell from his eyes that what he was feeling was complicated. A mixture of feelings he couldn't make out.

I didn't care what he was feeling. I doubted it would have much of an impact whether he told me or not. Sam--ever the gentle soul--wrapped his arm around my shoulders. I could barely feel it.

I was numb.

Mom was dead.


	23. Blur

Days passed by like this. It was hard to separate my grief from the shock.

I had enough sense to avoid television. Sam assured me that he'd watch the news for any sign of my mother's discovery, but I didn't hold any hope that Fallon police would let it go unsolved. They'd be calling for me soon enough.

Dean did his best to keep his distance. Not for the first time, I was distantly struck by how reassuring my brother's lack of comfort was to me. It wasn't like I didn't understand. I had a feeling that my grief made him nervous, so he cut his losses by avoiding as much contact with me as possible. Sam's hovering was the exact opposite.

If it was one thing you learned about the Winchester brothers, it was that their mannerisms were complete polar opposites of each other. Where as Dean was standoffish and overly masculine, Sam's gentle disposition and heart of gold made him hard to resist.

However, it was Dean that provided most of my comfort. Not in the way one would expect. We didn't suddenly become best friends. If anything, my mother's death just made the tension between us more unsure. But while Sam did his best to comfort me in a corporeal way, Dean kept a wide berth. He came and went frequently, trying to act like nothing was wrong. He brought food, and didn't mention anything regarding my mother unless there was news.

There wasn't any, so he never mentioned her.

On the third day of our stay in Louisiana, I woke up at the crack of dawn. Not that that was any different from the days before. I went through the motions of the day: showering, brushing my hair with my fingers because the thought of running a brush through it sent a bolt of anxiety through my numbed brain. I had just managed to wind my tangled hair into something resembling a braid when there was a hesitant knock on the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock . . . knock.

I knew who it was before I even opened the door.

Sam looked as awkward as ever, his tall frame looming in the doorway. His eyes took in my musty appearance, but before he could stutter out a morning greeting, I'd turned away from him. I plopped myself listlessly on the edge on my mattress as he shut the door behind him. The rustle of his clothes moved from the door to the space next to me. The bed dipped.

"How you doing?" he asked. I tilted my head to look him in the eye.

"Peachy," I replied bleakly. The word was automatic, and sounded monotonous even to my stuffed ears. Sam nodded. It was obvious to me that he had run out of comforting spiel sometime yesterday evening. Now he was at a loss, wanting to make me forget the repeating horrors in my head but not knowing how.

I could feel the void in my chest growing wider with each passing minute of silence. I shoved myself up and began to reach for the TV remote, suddenly desperate for a distraction before the feeling in my head could evolve any bigger. But before I could pick up the remote, Sam snatched it out of my hand. The swiftness of his movements caught me off guard, my slow brain not fast enough to compute what had just happened until Sam had already set the remote down on the nightstand.

I frowned at him. "I need noise."

"TV might not be the best idea right now, Gray," he explained tentatively. His eyebrows furrowed. "It's better to just stay away from it until this whole thing has blown over."

"You mean until Fallon forgets that my mother's murdered corpse was found burned to a crisp in a gasoline house fire along with a dozen other bodies." My tone was flat, my voice sounding far away. Disconnected as I was from my emotions; desperate to feel absolutely nothing rather than deal with the growing clarity inside me. I didn't feel pain from my words. They were nothing more than a statement of fact. Obvious to my addled brain as nothing more than the cold truth.

Sam paused, mouth half open as if he were searching for the right words. "Um . . . yeah. I guess."

My head nodded up and down. The following silence was thick and awkward. Sam rubbed his hands up and down his legs; rubbed them together vigorously. He cleared his throat a couple of times before--finally--standing.

"Maybe TV wouldn't be so bad after all," he decided. He snatched up the remote from where he'd left it and switched on the monitor.

Immediately, a newswoman's voice filled the room. "Reports still coming in in regards to a mysterious house fire in Texas, involving the suspicious deaths of over fifteen--"

The channel switched. Mortification took over Sam's features as Wiley Coyote zipped across the screen. The newswoman's words continued to echo in my brain even as I watched a cartoon anvil decimate a coyote on a desert road. I didn't bother saying anything. There was no point. Instead, I dedicated my attention solely to the cartoon in front of me. The adorable roadrunner did little to distract me.

The cartoon only played for about five minutes before the hotel door opened again. I glanced away from the TV long enough to watch Dean close the door behind him. He was clutching a greasy takeout bag in one hand and a cell phone in the other. His eyes glazed over the television and turned an exasperated look to Sam.

"Really?" he asked. He plopped the greasy bag of food onto the small table by the door. "Cartoons? What are we, five?"

"Dean . . ." Sam sighed. He looked pointedly at me, as if speaking crassly in front of me would shatter my glass composure. But Dean rolled his eyes.

"C'mon, Sam," he said, "stop treating her like she's a porcelain doll! And it's about high time she learns to deal with this. We aren't babysitters."

Sam rose from the bed, shoving Dean towards the door and muttering to him. The sound effects of Wiley Coyote falling off a cliff drowned out most of their conversation, but I caught a few stray snippets.

" . . . more compassionate . . . been through enough . . . like she's . . . not even there."

" . . . not a . . . care of herself . . . listen . . . Dad . . . not answering . . . twenty times . . ."

They spoke in hushed tones for a few more minutes. The air in the room grew more tense. It was clear to me that they both had very different ideas of what was best for me. The thought alone was enough to snap me from my fever dream. I shot to my feet and rounded on them so suddenly they both jumped.

"Hey!" I snapped. "Quit talking about me like I'm not here!"

My outburst--after days of numb silence--startled them both. The two boys stared at me, identical expressions on their faces. I stood there, huffing and puffing for a moment, before the sudden adrenaline drained from my system. I swayed under a huge wave of vertigo, and Sam hurried forward to catch me before I faceplanted into the brown carpet.

"Easy," he cautioned, guiding me back to the bed. However, once I was seated, I shook him off.

"No." I shook my head. "How long has it been?"

Sam looked at me uneasily. "Only a week.. Gray, there's no rush--"

"I need to get a hold of myself," I insisted. "Its okay. You guys shouldn't be taking of me. Dean's right; you barely know me."

"Wait a minute, I didn't say--" Dean tried to protest.

"We need to get going," I cut him off. "Small town people don't forget new faces. They'll be looking for you guys too. We cant linger. The farther away from Texas we get, the better."

Sam, who had been gaping at me with his mouth half open in surprise, shook off his stupor. "Um, okay. We'll take off first thing tomorrow."

"Not tomorrow," I said. "Today."

"Damn it, slow down, kid--" Dean held up his hand, as if he were preparing to placate me or shove me away.

I stood abruptly, brushing off my two-day old sweatpants. "Get packing. I need a drink." I was halfway to the door before I turned and faced them again. "For the record, the next time I come face to face with John Winchester, I'm breaking his fucking nose."


	24. Barstool Tension

The motel didn't have a bar. I had to walk across the street to the nearest one. The sign above the door read Dizzy Escape Brewpub. The appropriateness of it did not elude me. Fueled by pure determination to forget, I threw the door open and stepped inside.

I had half-expected the bar to be empty. My mind--still hazy with self-induced fog--took a moment to take it the handful of patrons hunched over the bar to my left. The abundance of bright neon signs glowed along the back wall. The restroom sign flickered like a strobe light. Over at the bar, the bartender looked up from the taps he was cleaning.

"Can I help you, sweetheart?" he asked, not unkindly.

It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. A few of the patrons at the bar--all men--glanced in my direction. The bar door thumped closed behind me, driving me forward like a slingshot.

I planted myself on the nearest stool and made myself comfortable. I turned to the bartender. "I'll have whatever burns."

With a nod and a towel-wave in my direction, he went to work. The clinking of liquor bottles served as background music as I slipped my phone from my pocket. I flipped it open and began to dial numbers, my ears ringing. John Winchester had a plethora of burner phones, but my mother always made sure I had his current numbers memorized.

I called them all, and left the same message on every one. "You did this. You took me away, and she died. You left her there. If I ever see you again, I'm gonna fucking kill you."

The phone closed with a snap. The sleeping drunk at the end of the bar snorted and shifted. The other patrons were doing their best to figure out the secrets at the bottoms of their glasses. I shoved my phone back into my pocket, momentarily disgusted with myself for letting my anger get the better of me. But then a glass was placed in front of me, and the bartender had my full attention.

"Sounds like you got a lot going on," he said. His tone was light and casual, reassuring without being nosey.

I scoffed, picking up the glass. "Sure. You could say that."  
The liquid swishing inside the glass was tall and dark red. The straw was striped, and it was topped with mint leaves. I raised an eyebrow at the bartender.

"Scared a lady cant handle the hard stuff?" I questioned.

It was his turn to scoff. "Don't be so quick to judge. That's a Zombie. Normally only use it as a hangover cure, but you look like you need it. The Absinthe in that alone will knock you on your ass."

I hummed, showing my gratitude by sipping in gusto. Almost immediately, my body tried to reject the alcohol. The taste was something between heavenly and hellish, and my throat screamed as I forced it down. I sighed loudly, swishing the taste around in my mouth.

"It'll do," I decided, drinking again. The bartender coughed out a laugh, eyes twinkling.

"Whatever you say, sweetheart," he rasped. Then he said. "Gotta see some I.D. before I let you forget your name, though."

"I thought bartenders were supposed to ask before they serve," I countered. The alcohol was already beginning to affect me. I'd downed half the glass while he'd been talking.

"You gonna sell me out?" he asked. It was clear he was joking, shrugging casually as I fished my fake I.D. from my wallet.

"Are you?" I asked. He took the card, glanced a it, and returned it. I doubted he truly read the details, but I couldn't find it in me to care.

I took another long sip through the straw. The taste was somewhere between heavenly and hellish, but I didn't care as long as it made me forget.

Forget everything.

The icy drink cooled my throat, soothing. Then it went from cool to cold, then to burning when I didn't stop. Not unlike the burn of the alcohol. The pain was welcoming, and I let the sensation pave my way to a drunken haze.

The drink did it's job and then some. My buzz hit halfway through my first glass, settling like a heavy cloud over my mind. Details from the last few weeks erased themselves. I no longer felt grief. Nor did I feel like the feeling in my chest that I had been keeping at bay was growing any larger.  
I don't remember how long I was in that bar. The number of drinks I had blurred. I may have just had one, or I may have had five. Minutes felt like hours, and if there were any hours, they felt like days. My buzz allowed me to float in serenity somewhere between then and there. And I lingered in my haze for as long as I could.

At some point after I started drinking, the bartender appeared in front of me. I glanced up at him from where my head lay on the bar, the cool wood soothing the fire in my face.

"Someone's here to get ya, honey," he told me. His hand gestured in the direction of the door.

My head felt hot and heavy, but I sluggishly turned it around to see who he was pointing at.

I vaguely recognized Sam in my drunken state. My buzzed brain laughed at how awkward he looked in his brown hoodie and tennis shoes.

"Hiya, bro," I greeted. My voice sounded too high pitched, and I giggled. "Watcha doin'?"

Sam rolled his eyes and walked toward me. He moved super fast, standing above me in the time it took me to blink. He moved so fast it startled me, and I nearly fell out of my stool.

I laughed as I regained my balance. For some reason, Sam didn't find it amusing. Instead, he thanked the bartender and reached for me.

"C'mon," he said, yanking my arm around his shoulders. "Let's go."

"Go where?" I asked, confused. "I'm fine right here. I even made a friend!"

I tried to turn my body to show him the bartender, but I swung too far, and he almost dropped me. Sam grunted as he adjusted my weight and started leading my toward the door again.

"What the hell, Gray?" He scolded me. "Did you think getting black-out drunk would make you feel better? It's not gonna. Not for long."

I leaned in close to his ear and tried to whisper. "John killed my mom."

Sam paused with a hand against the door.

"He left her there. He took me away. And now both our moms are dead."


	25. Something Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S1:E18--SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COME

Unfortunately, my buzz did not last as long as I'd liked it to. I was sober two hours into the drive, groaning and moaning for aspirins to relieve my mid-day hangover. Sam and Dean found my misery amusing, though Sam was--as always--much more merciful than our older brother.

I cant remember how long we drove before finally putting an end to my suffering. After about eighteen hours of hell, listening to the boys argue in the front seat over blaring rock music was like nails on a chalkboard.

"Yeah, cause you probably missed something, that's why," Dean accused Sam. I had long stopped paying attention to their bickering.

"Dude," Sam said, "I ran LexisNexis, local police reports, newspapers--I couldn't find a single red flag. Are you sure you got the coordinates right?"

"Yeah, I double-checked," Dean argued. "It's Fitchburg, Wisconsin. Dad wouldn't have sent us coordinates if it wasn't important, Sammy."

I scoffed. "Yeah, right, because Dad's advice has been so reliable before." I pushed myself up, leaning against the front seat. "But, I mean, who knows? Maybe he is sending us to find something. Like another body!"

Dean's shoulders heaved in a sigh. "C'mon, Gray. . . . You gotta move on from this; it's becoming a distraction."

I shrugged, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Maybe I will. After I bash his face in."

"Guys, come on," Sam cut in. I relented, leaning back against my seat and crossing my arms over my chest. Up in the driver's seat, Dean shifted his weight. Sam continued, "Well, I'm telling you, I looked, and all I could find was a big, steamy pile of nothing. If Dad's sending us hunting for something, I don't know what."

"Well, maybe he's gonna meet us there," said Dean. He couldn't hide the hopeful tone in his voice.

"Yeah," Sam chuckled, "'cause he's been so easy to find up to this point."

I snorted, but bit my lip to keep from spitting something that would piss Dean off. Not that I cared, really. I just didn't want to deal with it.

Dean turned to Sam. "You're a real smartass, you know that? Don't worry, I'm sure there's something in Fitchburg worth killing."

I smirked. "Or someone." I said it too low for the boys to hear, and they carried on without noticing.

"Oh yeah?" Sam asked. "What makes you so sure?"

Dean paused. "Because I'm the oldest," he decided, "which means I'm always right."

I barked out a laugh. "Yeah, okay. Those gray hairs growing in good, Old Man?"  
"Shut up," he growled at me.

"No, it doesn't," Sam protested.

"It totally does," Dean insisted. From what I could see of his face, I could tell his mouth was curved up into a smile. I contemplated smacking it right off, but before I could, a green road sign caught my attention.

Fitchberg. Pop. 20, 501. "A Place To Call Home".

"Well, that's kinda depressing," I said. The cheery sign stood out against the gloomy sky, looking nothing but sad.

The small town of Fitchberg was nothing special. Main Street was lined with dozens of Mom-&-Pop shops, restaurants, and hardware stores. Traffic was light, and plenty of people were out and about. As Dean pulled the car to the side of the road and shut the engine off, I was surprised by how casual everything felt.

Normally, a town seized by the supernatural had an air about it. A specific scent or taste in the air that hinted at something other. But Fitchburg didn't. If anything, it seemed almost too normal.

But of course, that didn't put off Dean.

As he climbed out of the car, Sam and I scrambled to follow. Dean took a deep breath of midwest air, then turned to us.

"I'm gonna go check some of the local businesses, see if the locals've noticed anything monster-y going on lately," he announced. He pointed at me. "Why don't you take those over there?"

He waved in the general direction of a row of Mom-&-Pop stores across the park from us. I raised my eyebrows at him, communicating my disdain at being ordered around, but I figured protesting wouldn't be for any sake other than plain rebellion. So i relented with a shrug, and made my way over.

I knew Dean had sent me away as retaliation for badmouthing John. But I didn't care. I had a point, and Dean knew it. There was a pattern of misery in John Winchester's wake, even if Dean refused to see it.

The row of shops consisted of a locally owned hardware store, a small bakery, an insurance kiosk, and a pair of linked book and toy stores. The hardware and insurance kiosk were closed, and the people running the book and toy stores denied noticing anything suspicious.

However, when I entered the bakery--titled simply 'The Fitchburg Bakery'--I immediately felt eyes on me.

A dozen pairs of curious small-town eyes zeroed in on me. The sudden attention had me itching to pull out my gun in defense, but I tried to ignore them. Instead I focused on the bored looking teenager manning the register. As soon as I approached, he launched into a monotonous spiel.

"Welcome to The Fitchburg Bakery, where we make it our mission to make your sugary dreams come true. Would you like to try our brand new Lemon-Cranberry Pound Cake?"

I raised my hands in surrender. "At ease, soldier. I'm good."

He was unfazed by my response. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, actually!" I turned on my most charming smile. As expected, the boy was immediately drawn in, leaning just a bit forward over the counter. I leaned forward too.

"I'm not here to buy cookies," I revealed in a murmur. "I'm just trying to see if anybody around here's noticed anything weird going on in these parts."

"Weird?" He repeated, dazed.

"Yeah," I agreed. "You know? Cold spots? Weird smells? Strange occurrences nobody can explain?"

His eyes widened to the size of display platters. He whispered excitedly. "I thought I was the only one!"

My heart rate sped up. "I promise you're not. What did you see?"

He hesitated suddenly, eyes darting around the bakery. I could feel the patrons eyeing us warily. I tried to draw his attention back to me.

"Hey," I said. He looked at me. I smiled reassuringly. "Its okay. Just tell me what you know."

The cashier swallowed, licked his lips, then began to unbutton his work shirt. A tshirt--the homemade kind--peeked through the opening. His voice got quieter.

"What do you know about the species of Zorg aliens living in the caves around here?"


	26. Something Wrong

I burst out of the bakery, steam curling from my ears. I didn't bother glancing at the road before I stomped across, earning a few angry honks in response. Across from the park, Dean was still in his coffee shop. I made a conscious effort not to look at him as I made my way back to the car.

Sam was still there, leaning against the Impala, looking intently at the children's playground a few feet away. He looked over as I approached, pushing off the car as he caught sight of my miffed expression.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Goddamn alien fanatics," I hissed. He gave me a confused look. I explained, "The stupid cashier in the bakery tried to get me to join his damn alien conspiracy club. I'm gonna punch Dean in the dick."

"Hey, it's not his fault the cashier was an idiot," Sam said, exasperated. I could tell he was tired of us fighting.

"Yeah, but I gotta blame someone." I shrugged. "And Dean's not gonna press charges."

As if on cue, Dean emerged from the café across the street. He expertly carried three to-go coffee cups in his arms as he sauntered over to us.

"Well," he began upon arrival, "the waitress thinks that the local freemasons are up to something sneaky, but other than that, nobody's heard about anything weird going on."

As he spoke, he'd handed a coffee cup to Sam. He held onto the other, changing the strength of his grip on it as if he was hesitant to give it away. I took the opportunity to speak.

"I didn't have much either," I said. "Toy store owners didn't notice anything. The only other thing I got was an invitation to join the local Zorg fanbase."

Dean snorted, lifting his arm to his face to avoid spraying me with coffee. "What the hell is a Zorg?"

I glared at him. He seemed to sense my arm muscles tensing to strike, so he toned down his smirk and handed me the other cup of coffee. He didn't comment, but his eyes gave away his peace offering. After a moment's pause, I took it. I took a cautious sip, wary of any strange flavor. But it was sweet and creamy, with vanilla creamer and a not unhealthy amount of sugar.

. . . Exactly like I made it.

I took another sip but didn't say anything. I knew if I called him out it would just embarrass him. Instead, I said, "So what the hell did Dad send us here for?"

Dean shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe we missed something."

"Like what, Dean?" I demanded, leaning against the car.   
"We've gone through police reports, checked with the locals. I mean, what else could we be looking for?"

"I don't know, Gray," he snapped. "Okay? But I know that Dad didn't just send us here without a reason. There's gotta be something!"

I didn't have anything to say to that. I let the silence settle, taking sips of my coffee while my thoughts rolled over and over in my head. What exactly was John Winchester thinking when he sent us here? What did he want us to do? What were we supposed to be looking for?

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. The nerve of that man, to go ahead ordering us around like he hadn't just caused my mother's death. What right did he have to go about bossing us around?

My thoughts were only broken by Sam's voice. "Dean, you got the time?"

Dean checked his watch. "Ten after four. Why?"

Sam nodded toward the park. "What's wrong with this picture?"

I followed his gaze. A children's playground stood a few yards away. I took in the yellow metal jungle gym and green swing set before I realized that only one child was running around. A little girl in a pale pink jacket. A woman I assumed was her mother was lounging in a nearby bench, flipping through a magazine.

My mind didn't comprehend the issue until Dean spoke. "School's out, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "So where is everybody? This place should be crawling with kids right now."

"It is a little chilly," I pointed out. "Maybe the parents just decided to keep them in?"

"Yeah, maybe," said Dean. He took his coffee cup and made towards the playground.

I didn't move to follow him and neither did Sam. Instead, we hung back, watching as Dean struck up a conversation with the mother. While Dean worked, I leaned over to Sam and murmured, "So what do you think is going on here?"

Sam shook his head and took a drink of coffee. "I don't know. Maybe it's nothing?"

I nodded absently, tapping my fingers against my cup. But our hopes were dashed the second Dean turned away from the playground and began making his way towards us. His face was drawn, mouth set in a serious frown.

"What happened?" I asked when he reached us. "What did she say?"

"The kids around here are getting sick," he responded, not paused to speak as he climbed into the car. Sam and I hurried after him. "It's serious. Like, hospital serious. Might be something worth checking out."

It wasn't said like a question, but his eyes flickered first to Sam, then to me in the backseat. I exchanged looks with Sam, then nodded.

"What the hell," I said. "Why not?"


	27. Bikini Inspector Kaplin

The sign read DANE COUNTY MEMORIAL HOSPITAL. I squirmed in my freshly-ironed suit and smoothed away imaginary imperfections in my hair. My bun was tight at the back of my head, and I had to resist the urge to pull it down as we approached the building.

"Would you stop squirming?" Dean hissed as we climbed the front steps. "You're gonna get us caught."

"Not if you keep your mouth shut, I won't," I hissed back. Dean rolled his eyes and pulled two fake I.D.s from his inner jacket pocket. He kept one and handed the other to Sam. I reached into my jacket and touched the inside, feeling the reassuring bulk of my I.D.

As Dean opened the doors, Sam squawked suddenly in protest. "Dude, dude, I am not using this I.D."

"Why not?" Dean demanded.

"Because it says 'Bikini Inspector' on it!"

I had to cover my mouth with my arm to keep from snorting.  
Dean grinned. "Don't worry, she won't look that close, alright? Hell, she won't even ask to see it. It's all about confidence, Sammy."

And with that, Dean spun him around to meet the nurse at the front desk. I bit back a smile, hurrying past him and dodging the pleading look he threw me. I strayed a few inches from Dean's side--just enough to give an air of vague recognition. At the front desk, Sam and gotten into character.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Jerry Kaplan, Center for Disease Control," he announced to the nurse.

The nurse paused, then said, "Can I see some I.D.?"

Dean stifled a laugh. I did a better job at concealing my amusement, biting my lip and calming my giggles to a slight tremor in my shoulders. Sam glared at us.

"Yeah, of course," he told the nurse. He flashed the I.D. just long enough for her to glimpse the name, then pulled it away. "Now, could you direct me to the pediatrics ward, please?"

The nurse nodded. "Okay, just go down that hall, turn left, up the stairs. You'll see them."

"Right, thank you." Sam turned away from the desk, pinning us down with an annoyed glare as he approached.

Dean spread his arms out in triumph. "See? Told you it would work."

Sam didn't return his shit-eating grin. "Follow me. It's upstairs."

He led us silently through the hospital, his irritation tensing his shoulders. I followed behind quickly, the sterile environment of the hospital making me queasy. The strong scent of antiseptic and sickly-sweet sickness permeated the air, burning my nostrils. I tried breathing through my mouth, taking comfort in Sam and Dean's warmth acting like a barrier against the chill. It was because of my dependence on my brothers' warmth that I noticed that Dean was no longer behind me.

I frowned and paused, turning around to look for him. We had been passing through what looked like a residential ward; rooms with numbers and names lined either side of the hallway. A quick glimpse around told me they were likely for long-term residence that couldn't leave the hospital. Dean was standing further down the hall, frozen, staring into the doorway of a open room. His face was scrunched in suspicion.

I opened my mouth to ask him what he was doing, but Sam's voice beat me to it. "Dean."

Dean turned, startled out of his stupor. I raised my eyebrows at him. His eyes skated over me and Sam, seemed to realize that he'd fallen behind, and caught up.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice hushed.

Dean shook his head. "Don't worry about it."

I wasn't satisfied, but I knew I couldn't force him to tell me. I shrugged. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him sneaking one last glance over his shoulder.

"Thanks for seeing us, Dr. Hydaker," Dean said, the perfect picture of professionalism. Sam and I trailed behind him. I worked inwardly on trying not to feel like a puppy on a leash.

"Oh, I'm glad you guys are here," said Dr. Hydaker--a skinny tree of a man with a hooked nose and limp brown hair--as he led us through the waiting room towards the main ward. "I was just about to call the CDC myself. How did you find out, anyway?"

Dean replied, "Oh, some G.P.--I forget his name--he called Atlanta and must have beat you to the punch."

We had reached the glass doors and windows that showcased the children. Six beds lay in a row, each holding an unconscious child. My heart twisted, and I bowed my head to hide my scowl.

"So you say you got six cases so far?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Hydaker sighed, "in five weeks. At first I thought it was bacterial pneumonia, not that newsworthy. But now . . ."

When he trailed off, we looked at him. "Now , what?" I asked.

"The kids aren't responding to antibiotics. Their white-cell counts keep going down. Their immune systems just aren't doing their job. It's like their bodies are wearing out."

"Do they have any other symptoms?" I asked. I pulled a notepad from my pocket.

"Um," The doctor paused before continuing. "They're not running fevers, because their immune systems aren't responding. They're lethargic, dehydrated. Any nutrients we get into them almost immediately vaporizes. We cant get enough of it into them to make any improvements."

"You ever seen anything like this before?" Dean asked. A nurse appeared behind the doctor with a clipboard and handed him a pen.

"Never this severe," he answered, taking the pen from the nurse and signing the paperwork she handed him.

"The way it spreads," said the nurse, "that's a new one for me."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"It works its way through families," she said. "But only the children, one sibling after another."

Dean nodded. I could see the wheels cranking behind his eyes. "You mind if we interview a few of the kids?"

The nurse sighed. "They're not conscious."

Surprise rocketed down my body like a lightning bolt. "None of them?" I asked. 

"No."

Dean recovered quickly, "Can we talk to the parents?"

Dr. Hydaker handed the nurse the clipboard. "If you think it'll help."

"Yeah," said Dean, "yeah, who was your most recent admission?"

"I should get back to my girls."

"We understand that," Sam said, face sympathetic and understanding. "And we really appreciate you talking to us. Now, you say Mary's the oldest?"

The father nodded. "Thirteen."

"Okay," said Sam. "And she came down with it first, right? And then . . ."

"Bethany the next night," said the dad.

"Within twenty-four hours?" Dean asked. He glanced at me. The scratching of my pen against my notepad was the only other sound in the hallway.

The father blinked. "I guess. Look, I already went through all this with the doctor."

Dean held up a hand. "Right. Just a few more questions, if you don't mind. How do you think they caught pneumonia? Were they out in the cold, anything like that?"

The father shook his head. "No, we think it was an open window."

"Both times?"

"The first time, I don't really remember, but the second time for sure, and I know I closed it before I put Bethany to bed."

Sam's eyebrows furrowed. "So you think she opened it?"

The father looked at him. "It's a second story window, no ledge. No one else could have."

The boys paused. They shared a meaningful glance, but it was clear they had nothing new to ask. So I capped my pen, flipped my notepad shut, and gave the father a polite smile.

"Thank you so much for your time." I reached into my jacket and produced a business card. On it was the fake name I had given, and the number to a burner phone. I offered it to him. "We'll call if we have any more questions."

The man accepted it, and I lead the boys away. We walked in silence until the man was out of earshot.

"You know this might not be anything supernatural," said Sam, looking pointedly at Dean. "It might just be pneumonia."

"I've never heard of pneumonia putting kids in comas," I said, shaking my head. "But I haven't seen everything. Dean, I think he's right. There might not be anything here."

"Maybe," said Dean, not looking at us. "Or maybe something opened that window. I don't know man. Look, Dad sent us down here for a reason. I think we might be barking up the right tree."

"You sure are banking a lot on the chance Dad didn't send us down here on some goose chase," I grumbled. "How the hell would he know if something was going on here? Do you see him anywhere?"

"Dad wouldn't do that," Dean snapped. "He's a lot of things, but he doesn't mess around when it comes to the job."

I shook my head. "Don't I know it."

Dean turned and paused, looking down to meet my eyes. I held my ground, looking him squarely in the face. I didn't try to hide the anger in my eyes, or the disgust that I knew was painted over my features. My brother knew very well how I felt, and despite how much he wanted too, he couldn't deny that I was right to be angry with John. More than angry.

"I don't know," said Sam, breaking the tension. "But I'll tell you one thing."

Dean held my gaze for a second longer, then glanced at him. "What?"

"That guy we just talked to--I'm betting it'll be a while before he goes home."


	28. Chapter 28

The two-story house was mundane; dark blue outer paint and accented with white columns. Picking the front door was easy enough. You'd think that the act of breaking into a family's home would make me uneasy, or at least a little guilty. But as I worked at the lock and the front door swung open, all I felt was a dull sense of familiar excitement. 

We separated once inside. Sam and Dean took off up the stairs, intent on searching the two girls' rooms for anything suspicious. I assured them I could handle the downstairs level by myself, wandering away from the staircase towards what I hoped would be the kitchen. 

Truthfully, I didn't trust myself to keep my cool around Dean. Not at the moment, anyway. I needed time to calm down before I faced him again. I took deep breaths as I whipped out my EMF meter, extending the antennae and slowly passing it over the furniture and counters. I did my best to focus on the dead red bulbs lining the top of the device and not on how badly I wanted to punch Dean in the nose.

I knew Dean was having a hard time with John leaving us. It was obvious to me that my brother depended on John for more than just parental guidance. Dean looked up to John; he was devoted to him. He didn't understand my hatred for our father because he couldn't see how badly John had screwed up. Not just with my mother, but with me. Everything John Winchester did, he did for a reason. That was what Dean believed.

I was frustrated with Dean. But at the same time, I tried to understand where he was coming from. He was the oldest, and I knew a lot of responsibility fell to him after his and Sam's mother was killed. For reasons I couldn't quite grasp, Dean couldn't handle John making a mistake as big as the one he had made with my mother and I. I knew that, and I wanted to understand that.

But a large of me just didn't care. Grief for my mother was still burning in my chest, stabbing my heart like a molten knife. Regardless of whether or not Dean accepted how fucked John was, my anger towards him was all frostbitten metal and blizzard winds. Unlike with any other emotions, which ran through me hot and red, this anger was different. I had never felt an anger like this before; ice and sleet and snow. John Winchester had awoken something new in me, and it kind of terrified me.

The EMF meter was useless. Despite scanning every surface in the kitchen, living room, home office, and laundry room, there was no trace of anything ghostly or otherwise. I sighed, shoving the box into my jacket pocket and making a beeline for the stairs.

"Sam?" I called when I'd gotten to the top of the staircase. "Dean?"

"In here." I followed Sam's voice down the hall, catching a glimpse of his shaggy head in the doorway of one of the rooms. Decorating the walls of the hallway were a menagerie of happy family photos and childhood scrawls set in frames. _Stab_

The boys were together in one of the girls' rooms. Purplish-pink walls was a strange background to Dean's rugged figure in the corner.

"You got anything over there?" Sam asked. He was still by the doorway, running his EMF meter up and down the doorjamb. 

Dean replied from where he was scanning a vanity by the window. "No, nothing."

Sam sighed and dropped his arm. "Yeah, me neither." He turned to me. "Anything downstairs?"

I shook my head and leaned my body against the door frame. "Zip. No EMF, no goo, no broken doorjambs or windows, nothing. Whatever this creature is, it didn't come through the door."

While I had been talking, Sam had wandered over to the latched window and had been running his meter around the perimeter. Halfway through, however, he paused. He unlatched the window and pushed the panes open.

"Hey, Dean," he said.

"Yeah?" Dean asked. 

Sam stared down at something on the windowsill. He scoffed. "You were right. It's not pneumonia."

My eyebrows furrowed. I shrugged off the wall and walked over. Sam had moved away from the window for us to see, pointing at a dark spot on the sill. I leaned over.

It was a handprint. It was narrow--too narrow to be human--with long pointed fingers. The white painted wood around it was untouched. However, the wood inside of it--

"It's rotted," Sam said.

"What the hell...?" I breathed.

"What kind of creature leaves a handprint like that?" Sam asked.  
Dean had gone silent, peering down at the handprint with a scowl on his face. I shook my head.

"I've never seen anything like that," I said. I turned to Sam. "Maybe I could check my mother's journal--" _Stab stab_ "--maybe she came across something like that before I was born."

"You think so?" Sam asked. He looked skeptical.

I shrugged. "It's worth a try."

A beat of silence. Then Dean spoke. "I know why Dad sent us here."

I looked at him. He pulled away from the windowsill, a haunted look on his face. My stomach twisted. "Dean?" I asked.

Dean took a breath. "He's faced this thing before. He wants us to finish the job."


	29. What The Hell's A Shtriga?

The motel at 2400 Court was our home for the next few days. The decision was unanimous. I didn't care either way which dingy motel we shacked up in. I was too busy scanning the worn pages of my mother's hunting journal for anything useful about this shtriga. 

Nothing.

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop outside the motel main office and shut off the engine. I put my mother's journal back in my duffel bag and swallowed the sudden lump in my throat as I buried in under my clothes. I shoved my bag down to the floorboard and climbed out of the backseat.

Sam slammed the passenger door shut. "So what the hell is a shtriga?"

Dean closed the driver's side door. "It's kind of like a witch, I think. I don't know much about them."

"Well, I've never heard of it," said Sam. "And it's not in Dad's journal."

"It's not in my mother's either," I said. I crossed my arms over my chest. "I've certainly never hunted anything like this. What do you know, Dean?"

My brother shrugged, but his shoulders were too tense to be casual. He opened the trunk and answered absently. "Dad hunted one in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, about 16, 17 years ago." He turned to Sam. "You were there, you don't remember?"

"No," Sam said.

Dean continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I guess he caught wind that the thing's in Fitchburg now and kicked us the coordinates."

"Why would he do that?" I demanded. Ice was starting to settle in the pit of my stomach. 

Dean shrugged again. "Don't know. Maybe he figured since we were headed in this direction anyway, might as well give us something to do."

I opened my mouth, intending on ripping into John and his bullshit agenda, but Sam spoke first. "So, wait, this..."

"Shtriga," Dean said.

"Right. You think it's the same on Dad hunted before?"

Dean shut the trunk. "Yeah, maybe." He made towards the office door.

Sam followed him around the car. "But if Dad went after it, why is it still breathing air?"

He had a point. For all the things John Winchester was, he was first and foremost a ruthless hunter. This was the first I was ever hearing of him failing to have killed his prey.

Dean didn't turn back as he answered. "Because it got away."

"Got away?" Sam echoed.

Dean whirled on us, getting agitated. "Yeah, Sammy, it happens."

"Not very often," said Sam.

"Not at all, if Dad had anything to say about it," I added, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets.

Faced with our probing and dissatisfaction at his vague answers, Dean began to bristle. He threw his arms up. "I don't know what to tell you guys. Maybe Dad didn't have his Wheaties that morning."  
Dean turned, intent on leaving the conversation. Frustration boiled up in me like magma.

But Sam was having none of it. "What else do you remember?"

"Nothing," Dean insisted. "I was a kid, alright?"

I shook my head and scoffed. "Whatever you say, man." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a card. I offered it to Dean. "Here. For mine."

"I'm getting the premium package. It comes with a minibar," he told me, taking the credit card from my hand.

I rolled my eyes. "My card, my booze."

A sliver of a smile twitched on his face, but then he was gone. The bell on the door announced his arrival, and a young boy appeared from the back to help him.

I turned to Sam. "What the hell is John playing at? First he sends us to the middle of nowhere without an explanation, and now he wants us cleaning up his messes?"

"I don't know, Gray." Sam sighed. "I mean, I don't like it either, but it's not like we can just walk away. These kids are sick."

His logic made me angry. I snorted, "Yeah. I know. But I'm not gonna start asking 'how high' every time John wants us to jump."

"No one's asking you to." I gave him a look. Sam raised his hands in surrender. "Look, all I'm saying is that you two could at least try to get along. At least until we find Dad."

I sighed, slumping my shoulders. "Which wont be anytime soon if Dad has any say in it."

The office door springing open saved us from the awkward silence that was about to ensue. Dean emerged, waving too room tickets in bored triumph. He announced, "Two rooms, conjoined. Lets settle in. I need a drink."


	30. Do You Or Do You Not?

When it comes to hunting, I could confidently say that research was one of my least favorite parts. Because of course the monsters could never be common, or easy to find in lore. Because every book and every website said something different.

It didn't help that this shtriga bastard was nowhere to be found in any lore book I or my brothers owned. I shut another book with a sigh of defeat, slumping back into my chair. Through the conjoined doorway, I could see Sam hunched over his laptop, and Dean munching away on some food on the counter of their kitchenette. The only sounds were the clacking of Sam's computer keys and Dean's loud chewing.

I heaved myself up from the table and snatched up one of my duffel bags. I dug around for a second, then closed my fingers around the familiar cylindrical pharmacy bottle. The pills rattled as I extracted the bottle from the mound of clothes it was buried under. I popped the cap and tipped one black capsule into my hand before tossing the bottle back into the bag. 

"Well, I got nothing," I announced as I entered the boys' room. I tossed the pill into my mouth and stole a sip of Dean's soda. "Whatever the hell this thing is, it's not in any lore book."

"I've been searching every paranormal website I can think of," Sam said as I plopped cross-legged on the empty queen bed, "and so far I have--" his computer beeped, "--uh, something, I guess." He took a moment to scan the web page before he scoffed. He looked over at Dean. "Well, you were right. It wasn't very easy to find, but you were right. A shtriga is a kind of witch. They're Albanian, but legends about them date back to Ancient Rome. They feed off of _spiritus vitae_."

Dean tilted his head. "Spirit what?"

" _Vitae_ ," Sam repeated. "It's Latin; it translates to 'breath of life'. Kind of like your life force or essence."

"So, what, these hags suck out your soul?" I asked. 

"Uh, yeah, basically."

I scowled. "Gross."

"Didn't the doctor say the kids' bodies were wearing out?" Dean asked, scribbling down notes with a pencil. His eyes flickered to me.

"If their life force is being drained, their immune systems would be practically non-existent," I said, answering his unspoken question.

Sam nodded. "It's a thought. You know, she takes your vitality, maybe your immunity goes to hell, pneumonia takes hold. Anyway, shtrigas can feed off anyone, but they prefer--"

"Children." Dean leaned against the counter, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"Yeah," Sam said, "probably because they have a stronger life force. And get this--shtrigas are invulnerable to all weapons devised by god or man."

"So if no weapon can hurt it, how are we supposed to kill the damn thing?" I asked. This case just keeps getting better and better. A lump was beginning to form in my throat. I cleared my throat in an attempt to clear it.

Sam shrugged.

"No," said Dean suddenly. "That's not right." He pushed away from the counter and walked around it. "She's vulnerable when she feeds."

A pause. I raised my eyebrows.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean pawed around one of his duffel bags. "If you catch her when she's eating, you can blast her with consecrated wrought iron rounds. Buckshots or rounds, I think."

"How do you know that?" Sam asked.

"Dad told me," Dean said, not looking up from the tools in his hands.

"Oh," said Sam. He and I shared a look. 

I leaned forward. "Um, I thought you didn't remember anything from this case, Dean?"

"So, uh, anything else Dad might have mentioned?" Sam asked, cutting me off.

Dean glanced up. "No. That's it."

I raised my eyebrows again. There was a beat of silence before Dean looked up again, and said, "What?"

"Nothing," I said, leaning back against the headboard with my arms crossed over my chest. The lump in my throat caught with my breath, and I reached for a tissue.

"Okay." Sam got up from the bed. "So, assuming we can kill it when it eats, we've still got to find the thing first. Which ain't gonna be a cakewalk. Shtrigas take on a human disguise when they're not hunting."

My breath caught again. I did my best to keep quiet, coughing into the tissue.

"What kind of human disguise?" Dean asked.

Sam replied, "Historically, something innocuous. It could be anything, but it's usually a feeble old woman, which may be how the witches-as-old-crones legend got started."

I cleared my throat and winced. "Yikes. You'd think immortal soul-sucking hags would pick a disguise other than a soul-sucking hag."

"Hang on," Dean said. He lunged for the table, snatching a paper off the surface.

"What?" Sam asked. I discreetly dropped my tissue in the trash bin. 

Dean pointed to the page in his hand; a map of Fitchburg. "Check this out. I marked down all the addresses of the victims. Now, these are the houses that have been hit so far, and dead center--" He jabbed his finger on a structure in the middle of the houses. I peered down at it.

"The hospital." Sam and I spoke in unison, and the three of us shared a look.

"The hospital," Dean confirmed. "When we were there, I saw a patient, and old woman."

Sam paused. "An old person, huh?"

"Yeah."

"In the hospital?" Dean looked at him. Sam took a deep breath. "Whoo. Better call the Coast Guard."

I snorted, which triggered another coughing fit. I grabbed another tissue and covered my mouth.

The boys ignored me. "Well, listen, smart-ass," Dean snapped, "she had an inverted cross hanging on her wall."

Sam stopped laughing. Dean raised his eyebrows.

I tossed the tissue away. "Okay. This hag isn't gonna catch herself. Let's head down to the hospital and--"

My breath caught. Sam put a hand on my shoulder as I doubled over, hacking into a new tissue. Every time I tried to breathe, I started coughing again.

"Gray, are you sure it's a good idea for you to be around all those sick people?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed. "You know, with your--"

"I'm fine, Sam." I tossed the soiled tissue and straightened. "It's probably just dust from the motel sheets. Come on, we wanna get there before she can start hunting again."

I shrugged off his hand and stole a couple more tissues from the box on the nightstand. When I turned around again, both boys were staring at me.

"What? We going or not?"


	31. Hunting for Hags

I don't think I'll ever get over how quiet a hospital can get. Growing up, my mother worked as an E.R. nurse during the week. She always used to say that commenting on a lull in the E.R. was like inviting a curse. But now, as I snuck through the barren halls of Dane County Memorial Hospital, I felt like even the smallest noise would draw attention to us.

"Talk about spooky," I murmured. I followed Dean and Sam down another hall. Sam turned and shushed me. I stuck my tongue out at him.

Just as we were about to round another corner, Dean turned abruptly, causing me to almost slam into his chest. Sam picked up the cue better than I did, turning with him just in time to help catch me before I sent us spilling across the floor. The surprise had me sucking in a breath, causing the air to once again catch in my throat. I held my breath, not even daring to move for fear of setting loose the coughs held captive in my chest.

"Goodnight, Dr. Hydaker," a woman was speaking.

A man replied. "See you tomorrow, Betty."

"Try to get some sleep," Betty said. Then a tall, lanky man strode past. Miraculously, he didn't even glance in our direction.

As soon as he disappeared down the opposite hall, I let loose. My body shuddered with the hacking seizing my body. I leaned against the wall for support and shoved a tissue against my face to catch anything I might cough out.

When the hacking ceased, Sam spoke up. "Gray, maybe this isn't such a good idea--"

"Shut up, Sam," I rasped, stashing the used tissue in my jacket pocket. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can leave." I turned to Dean. "Lead the way."

He hesitated, sharing a look with Sam that I didn't quite understand.

Then he turned and started down the hall. We snuck by the Nurse's Station and down the dimly lit corridor, halting at a closed residential door marked 237. The lights inside were off, but a quick look through the small window in the door confirmed a small, hunched figure sat in a wheelchair. Sure enough, an inverted cross was hung on one wall.

Sam put one hand on the doorknob. Dean and I drew our guns. I clicked off the safety, nodding to Sam. Dean clicked off his safety, and Sam opened the door. Immediately I raised my pistol, darting inside the room and to the right. Dean creeped in right after me, gun raised as he moved silently around the old woman. Sam was the last one in, softly shutting the door and pointing his gun to the back of her head.

Nobody moved. No one dared even to breathe. From where I was standing, I couldn't see the woman's face clearly. But she sat very still. Unless I concentrated, I couldn't even be sure if she was breathing or not. The only light in the room came from outside, the moonlight interrupted by the open blinds. Dean leaned in close to her face. The hand holding my pistol tightened.

" _Who the hell are you?!_ " My heart skipped a beat. I sucked in a breath and immediately began coughing. The old woman continued to rave. " _Who's there? You trying to steal my stuff? They're always stealing around here."_

_Sam hit the lights. In the fluorescent glow, she didn't look witch-y. Well, not _as_ witch-y._

_"No, ma'am," Sam said hastily, still reeling. "We're maintenance. We're sorry. We thought you were sleeping."_

_Dean was pressed against the small dresser under the cross, looking annoyed more than anything else._

_The old lady rasped, "Ah, nonsense. I was sleeping with my peepers open!" She choked out a laugh and jabbed a finger in Dean's direction. "And fix that crucifix, would you? I've asked four damn times already."_

_Dean turned. The cross, which had been hanging inverted, spun right-side up when he tapped it. He turned to us with a bewildered expression. I managed a small smile as I tucked my safety-on pistol into my jeans. My heart was still pounding, but between the coughing and the adrenaline, I was short of breath._

_I looked from Dean to Sam, and shrugged my shoulders. I pointed my thumb at door and mouthed, _Can we go now? I'm hungry.__


End file.
